Unknown Type Rescue
by Kelmin
Summary: Usually, dispatch tells you what you're getting yourself into. Sometimes, they don't. Station 51 might find something funny, weird, sad, or disturbing, but it'll never be boring. T for language and scary situations. Each chapter except 9-10 stands alone as a separate story. See chapters for warnings.
1. The Hoarder

**Chapter 1: The Hoarder**

"Evergreen or deciduous?" Chet asked.

"Deciduous," Roy said, just as Johnny replied "Evergreen."

"All right, how about this one? And this time, so I don't think you're cheating, we'll do like rock-paper-scissors, only you stick out one finger for the first answer, and two for the second. Because I think you're puttin' one over on me," Chet said.

"All right," said Roy, "but honest—we're not cheating. Try the next one."

"Green beans, or broccoli? One, two, three, go!"

Johnny held out two fingers, and Roy showed one.

"Geez, guys! Okay, here's the last one. Time to paint the bedroom. Do you go for blue tones, or earth tones? And this time close your eyes when you show your answers. One, two, three, go!"

Roy again showed one finger, and Johnny two.

Chet shook his head. "You scored zero out of fifteen. The chart says: 'Zero through two: unless your negotiation and compromise skills are way above average, or you don't really mind if you only get what you want half the time, think twice before marriage.' So that clinches it. No wedding bells for the two of you," he said, tossing the _Woman's Day_ magazine onto the coffee table.

Johnny sighed, and stretched mightily. "How bored are we," he said, "if we're resorting to doing quizzes from women's magazines?"

"On a scale of one to ten, where zero is the least bored I've ever been, and ten is—"

BWAM, BWOOM BWEEEP!

"_Squad 51, unknown type rescue. 3806 Camden Street. 3-8-0-6 Camden Street, cross street Reno. Time out: 1542._"

Johnny and Roy leapt to their feet for their first run of the day.

"Man, Roy, I'll tell ya—I usually really hate the unknown type rescue, but today? I'll take what we get, and leave smiling, 'cause I can't remember the last time we didn't get toned out till the afternoon, for cryin' out loud."

"Here's the cross street," Roy said.

"Take a left. Should be the second block, on the right hand side."

The squad pulled past the small two-story dwelling, and Johnny checked the place out from inside the squad. The tiny, fenced-in yard was filled with objects, from bikes to kitchen appliances to—and Johnny had to look twice at this one—a snowblower.

"Uh oh," Roy said.

"I take it back," Johnny said under his breath, "about leaving happy."

"Yeah, Junior—the view from the windshield doesn't really make me want to go in there."

They each took a deep breath, and exited the squad. They picked their way through the yard to the front door, and banged loudly.

"Fire department!" Johnny shouted, as Roy pounded.

There was no response. Roy tried the door—it was locked.

"I'm gonna do a walkaround," Johnny said, "if I can," he finished in a mutter.

Johnny worked his way around piles and heaps, until he could get a look at the back of the house. The back yard was, if anything, more congested than the front. There was a boat, two doghouses—empty—no fewer than three refrigerators, two ancient, rusty swingsets—not set into the ground, just in a heap with other things, and an ancient Buick, whose wheels were sunk several inches into the ground. He looked up at the windows—every window in the house was closed and covered with shades or curtains.

He stepped as close as he could to the house, and listened carefully. Then he heard it: "bahmp, bahmp, bahmp, bahmp …" The sound of a phone off the hook, repeating endlessly.

Johnny tried the windows he could reach, but they were all locked. He returned to the front of the house. Roy was just putting the handset of the mobile radio back on its bracket. "I called for more information—they said all they heard was someone breathing, but they didn't get any verbal responses."

"Everything I tried was locked," said Johnny. "But I can hear a phone off the hook. It's really faint, but that's definitely what it is."

Roy sighed. "Let's get some law enforcement here, because we're gonna have to break in." He reached for the radio again. "Dispatch, Squad 51. Request law enforcement at our location."

"_10-4, Squad 51._"

Roy grabbed a set of irons, and Johnny picked up the bolt cutters and the tool for popping the front off a deadbolt. They trooped up to the front door.

Johnny wrinkled his nose. "I can smell it already."

"Yep."

Johnny set the bolt cutters down. He popped the face off the deadbolt lock, and worked it open with his tools. He slid a shove knife behind the latch of the doorknob lock, and pulled the door open. Three separate chains prevented the door from opening fully. But it opened enough for a powerful stench to assault them.

Johnny stepped back. "All yours, Roy."

Roy snipped through the chains with the bolt cutter, and the two men reluctantly pulled the door completely open. Several cats shot out the door.

"Fire department!" Johnny hollered again. He took a deep breath to shout again, but gagged. "Holy shit," he said under his breath. He shouted again. "Hello? Anyone home?"

There was no response.

Roy sighed. "You want upstairs, and I'll take down here?"

"Not really, but okay."

Roy searched through the downstairs rooms. There were piles of newspapers, books, and magazines nearly up to the ceiling in what looked like it must be the living room. There was a door behind several piles; Roy decided not to try to get to that door, since it seemed unlikely that it had been opened in years. Decades.

Several piles in the next room had toppled. The victim could be under there, but that wouldn't account for the phone-off-the-hook sound, which Roy could now tell was coming from upstairs. He got as far as he could into the kitchen. Nothing. Well, nothing except piles of plastic bags filled with who-knew-what.

There was another sound coming from upstairs, but Roy couldn't tell what it was.

"Hey Roy?" Johnny called. "I got 'im! First room at the top. Watch yourself on the landing."

"Coming up!"

"Sir? Sir? Can you hear me?" Roy heard Johnny saying from the room upstairs.

Roy picked his way through the objects on the stairs. The landing was indeed extra hazardous—an ancient lamp stood in the corner, its broken glass globe jutting sharply into the airspace at face level. Roy made it to the top of the stairs, and peered into the room that Johnny was in. He was on the floor, with a male patient of about sixty, who was on his belly on the floor next to the bed—the one surface in the house not completely inundated by objects. Johnny had put the phone back on the hook, and Roy could now hear the other sound more clearly. It sounded a bit like the buzzing of a beehive, but higher pitched, and more insistent.

"Responsive to pain stimulus only. Let's roll him," Johnny said.

They carefully rolled the man onto his back, keeping his spine straight.

"Looks like maybe a hip fracture," Roy said.

"Yep. We'll need a backboard, biophone, drug box, IV box. And, uh, manpower. I don't think we can get him out down the stairs," Johnny said. "Not without moving a lot of stuff."

"You thinking the window?"

"Yeah. There's a roof over the back porch. Send him out this window here in a Stokes, and then down to the ground. Probably better than getting down the stairs."

Roy nodded. "I agree. I'm gonna check that other room real quick, just to make sure there's nobody in there, because I'm hearing something weird. Then I'll get the supplies and call dispatch for the Engine."

"They're gonna love this," Johnny said, shaking his head.

Roy exited the room, and opened the door to the adjacent room. As the door opened, Roy was nearly felled by a stench even more noxious than the now mild-seeming underlying odor of the home. He looked into the room, and wished he hadn't.

The entire room, every wall, floor to ceiling, was lined with animal carriers. Each one contained at least one cat; some had two. The carriers each had a food and water dish—and that was all. It didn't appear that the carriers—or the room—had ever been cleaned.

At the top of one of the stacks of carriers, there was a badly-decomposed carcass that Roy could only assume was feline.

Roy left the room, and shut the door as quickly as possible. He was glad for an excuse to leave the house, though he knew re-entry would be, if that was even possible, more sick-making than the initial entry, since he already knew how bad it was. It was of minor consolation that he wouldn't have to go back into the cat room—that would be someone else's problem.

Roy carefully made his way back out the front door, and stood on the porch, breathing the fresher air in deeply. He went to the mobile radio in the squad and picked up the hand microphone.

"Dispatch, from Squad 51; we need an ambulance at our location. Also, we're requesting Engine 51 for additional extrication manpower at our location."

"_Squad 51, dispatching ambulance and Engine 51 to your location._"

Roy waited until he heard the tones, and heard Captain Stanley acknowledge the call. "Dispatch, we're also going to need animal control, for approximately … forty cats on the premises."

A pause. "_Squad 51, say again?_"

"Squad 51 requests animal control at our location, for approximately forty, four zero, cats."

"_10-4, Squad 51. Will dispatch animal control._"

As he replaced the hand mic, a black-and-white pulled up in front of the house, and a deputy stepped out.

"What you got?"

"Hoarder," Roy said, as he got the needed supplies out of the squad. "He's upstairs, probably has a broken hip. We had to break in, so I guess you oughta check it out. Don't know how he'd know if we took anything, though. Not that we'd want to."

"Yeah. I can smell it from here," said the deputy. "Damn. All right; lead the way. Lemme take some of that stuff."

Roy sighed, and returned to the stuffy, smelly house with the deputy. "Our engine's on its way; we're gonna have to take the guy out a window. Oh, and animal control is coming. The second upstairs room is full—and I do mean _full_—of cats. You're gonna hafta take a look, I'm afraid. It's pretty grim."

"Great. Man, what a mess … is that a—"

"Yeah, 'fraid so. The real action's upstairs, though. Watch out for that broken lamp."

Roy could hear Johnny on the biophone.

"10-4 Rampart. IV, normal saline, monitor vitals and transport."

Roy went into the room with Johnny, and assisted in setting up the IV. The man moaned and pushed back slightly from the needle stick, but otherwise didn't respond. The engine's siren, wailing in the distance, got louder, and then moaned to a halt.

"I got out once already; you can go meet them," Roy said.

Johnny practically leapt to his feet. He left the room as fast as he could, and inched down the stairs just in time to hear voices at the front door.

"Holy Moses!" said Chet.

"He'd be handy, right about now—this sea could use some parting if you ask me," said Mike.

Johnny raised his eyebrows at the uncharacteristically lengthy sentence from Mike. "Yeah, well wait'll you see the upstairs. Which, actually, maybe you won't have to. Here's the deal—we gotta backboard this guy, and take him out the window. No way he's comin' down those stairs, there," Johnny said, pointing into the house.

"What stairs?" Marco asked, muscling forwards to get his first good look at the place. "Geez."

Cap had his turn. "Yikes. I've seen places like this before, but I think this one gets first prize."

"Yep," Johnny said. "The smell upstairs is kinda heart-stopping. Puts the 'code' in 'fire code,' if you know what I mean."

The others looked at him blankly.

"Uh, you know—like when someone's heart stops, and they call a code at the hospital?"

Chet took pity on him. "I get it. You tried, I know you did."

"All right, boys—let's get a move on, here," Cap said. "Gage, what've we got in the back?"

"Piles and piles and piles of—oh, you mean in terms of getting the guy out. Uh, pretty flat porch roof, easy to get to with a roof ladder. We pass the guy out the window, and send him down in the Stokes. We probably oughta send the backboard and the Stokes up that way, come to think of it," Johnny said.

"Good plan—I don't want anyone in that house any more than is necessary," said Cap. "Cause he just lost his certificate of occupancy."

It took ten minutes or so to extricate the man from his home. Johnny rode in with him, and Roy brought the squad in. They left the windows open in the squad while they both cleaned up at Rampart, showering and changing into the spare uniforms they kept there, bagging their other sets in plastic for the trip back to the station.

Despite being aired out for a quarter of an hour, the squad still stank. Johnny made a small noise of disgust as he sat back down in his seat and buckled up.

"I hafta say, Roy, that was … disturbing. I didn't understand that one at all."

"Me neither. I guess we've all got a little pack-rat in us, but most of us know when to stop."

"I guess it kinda got away from him, didn't it."

"Sure looked that way."

They drove back to the station in silence. Roy backed the squad into the apparatus bay, frowned, and pulled back out onto the concrete apron in front of the station.

"Still needs to air out some," he said in answer to Johnny's quizzical look.

"Oh. Yeah. I hope we don't stink too bad," Johnny said, rolling down his window.

"Well, I'm sure Kelly will be the first to tell us if we do."

They entered the station, and found the rest of the men in the day room, each with a grocery bag.

"Oh, man!" said Marco. "This newspaper is from last week!"

"And I found some magazines from three months ago," Mike said, adding more items to his bag.

"How's the fridge looking, Kelly?" Cap asked.

"Better," Chet said, pulling his head out of the appliance in question. "Found a lot of expired stuff, though."

"I'll go through the freezer," Johnny said.

"I'll check out the storeroom," said Roy, desperate for an opportunity to throw something out.

By supper time, the station had been cleared of nearly everything that was expired, out of date, out of style, broken, or otherwise questionable. The men devoured Mike's dinner of meatloaf, green beans, and rolls.

"Who's got interesting plans for tomorrow?" Cap asked, noticing that everyone was quieter than usual. He imagined he could see tiny wheels turning in each of their heads, and was a little concerned about the direction he assumed those wheels were heading.

"I think I've got some cleaning up to do at home," Chet said.

"Me too," echoed Roy, Johnny and Marco.

"I've got a lot of stuff in my garage," said Mike. "Time for it to go."

Cap sighed, and drummed the table with his fingers. "Do me a favor, boys. Wait on it. Wait till after our next shift to do any serious purging at home, all right?"

The men of Station 51 looked back at their Captain, not understanding.

"It's a spectrum, right? Just like anything else. Stuff's not bad—but we all got a sour taste in our mouths today. I think we all needed to clean up a bit when we got back from that one, but try not to take it home with you, all right? Just like any of the other things we see. Try to leave it here."

Five men slowly nodded, mumbling their agreement. Just like everything else they saw that was disturbing, upsetting, terrifying—they'd have to try to let this one go.

"I guess my garage can wait," said Mike.

"Yeah, and I think maybe I won't try to give my cat a bath after all," Marco announced.

Roy and Chet pledged not to go crazy with cleaning. Everyone looked at Johnny, who hadn't yet responded to Cap's suggestion.

"Fine," said Johnny. "I won't do a dump run. But I'm still cleaning my fridge."


	2. Squad 51, PI

**Chapter 2: Squad 51, P.I.**

The dorm was silent, save the quiet noises of five people breathing in their sleep, and the sound of one person snoring gently. Henry, the station's basset hound, was curled up on a dog bed next to Chet's bunk. The dog had learned during his time at the station that the three different groups of men who inhabited his home each had one man who would tolerate or enjoy having Henry's dog bed near his bunk, and had taught himself the trick of moving his dog bed to be near the correct bunk shortly after shift change each morning.

Henry suddenly lifted his head, woken by a sound the men couldn't hear. He'd learned not to bark when the men were in their bunks, or he'd get banished to the day room, but he couldn't help making a slight "huff" when he heard the speaker of the PA system come on nearly silently, about five seconds before the tones sounded.

BWAMP, BWOOM BWEEEP! The dorm's lights came on, their harsh glare making Henry cover his eyes with a paw.

"_Squad 51, unknown type rescue. 12488 Murphy Court. 12488 Murphy Court, cross street MacAllister. Time out: 0325._"

Johnny and Roy stepped into their boots and bunker pants on autopilot. Roy fired up the squad, as Johnny acknowledged the call and then stepped into the squad, throwing his coat on as he did so.

"Man, that's number three already tonight," Johnny said, yawning. "And you know how I love the unknown type rescue."

"Mm," Roy said, not in the mood for a discussion of any kind, let alone a Gage special rant. Just because Johnny had the ability to be instantly awake and alert didn't mean that Roy had to appreciate the steady stream of verbiage.

"Maybe someone's kid was just playing with the phone, and we can just go back to the barn right away," Johnny said.

"Uh huh," Roy said, trying hard to show his disinterest in Johnny's speculations.

He wasn't getting through.

"Or maybe it'll be a party, and someone's really drunk, and their friends tried to—cross street's the next one—tried to call, but he hung the phone up on them—yeah, this is it. Should be the fourth block. Or maybe someone—"

"Johnny," Roy said, not taking his eyes off the road.

"What? Okay, here it is. Yeah, I've been to this block before, I think. These are some pretty swanky places, pal."

Roy just grunted as he got out the O2 and biophone and handed them to Johnny. He took the drug and trauma boxes himself, and closed the compartments of the squad. They trudged to the front door of the house. Johnny set down the O2, and banged forcefully on the door.

"Fire dep—"

The door swung open at the first blow.

"Well, how 'bout that?" Johnny said. "Fire department!" he shouted into the foyer.

Nobody answered.

"All right, let's go in," Johnny said.

As they stepped into the house, they could immediately hear the sounds of labored breathing coming from the living room just off the foyer. They raced to a man who was seated at the edge of a couch, across from the fireplace in the modern and elegant room. He had his hands on knees, back straight, neck extended, and was working mightily to inhale some small quantity of air through what Johnny and Roy could already tell was a seriously inflamed airway. The man's face was red and swollen, and he had a rash on his exposed hands and lower arms.

Johnny set up the oxygen, and started his patter, as Roy called dispatch for an ambulance and began getting an initial set of vitals.

"Sir, we're paramedics from the fire department. I'm putting some oxygen on you, to help you breathe better. Can you talk at all?"

The man shook his head, but pointed to a piece of paper on the coffee table the paramedics had pushed aside. Roy began his initial report over the biophone, and Johnny tuned in with one ear as he picked up the sheet of paper.

He read it aloud. "Can't breathe. Itchy rash started 10 pm. Don't know why. Didn't eat anything weird or do anything unusual." He handed the note to Roy, who relayed it to Rampart and handed it back to Johnny.

Johnny looked up at the man. "Did it get worse fast?"

The man nodded.

"Is the oxygen helping you at all?"

The man grabbed the paper from Johnny, and jabbed his finger at the first two words: "Can't breathe."

"The air's just not getting in," Johnny clarified.

The man nodded, and his head drooped with the effort. He slumped over, no longer able to hold himself up in the position that seemed to help him breathe more easily. Johnny laid him out on the couch, and elevated his upper body with a stack of pillows so he could be more upright.

Roy repeated Rampart's instructions back over the biophone. "10-4, Rampart. Point three milligrams epinephrine, sub-q, IV D5W TKO, and then a new set of vitals."

Johnny grabbed the epinephrine and a syringe from the drug box, and Roy set up the IV.

"I'm going to give you a shot of epinephrine. That's a medicine that can sometimes help if someone's airway is swelling up like yours." He administered the medication. "Your heart might race, and you'll probably feel a little jittery; those are just normal side effects. My partner's getting an IV going for you because fluids can help, and in case we need to give you some more medicine in a hurry."

Their patient was beyond any ability to respond—all his energy was going in to trying to suck some modicum of air into his lungs. Johnny waited a minute or two until Roy had the IV going, and then listened to the patient's lung sounds again.

He shook his head. "I don't think the epi's helping." He reached into a bag, and took out an ambu-bag setup. He got it all put together, but waited until the last second to move the oxygen tubing from the non-rebreather to the ambu-bag setup.

"Here's what we're gonna do, sir," he explained, not sure whether the man could hear or not. "I'm gonna use the bag on this mask to help you get more air into your lungs. It'll feel a little strange, but it'll get more air into your lungs for you."

Johnny knew the man was past the point where he'd try to fight the ventilations, so he quickly plugged the O2 tubing into the port on the ambu-bag, pulled the non-rebreather mask off the patient's face, and replaced it with the ambu-bag mask. He began squeezing the bag, matching the rhythm with the patient's own efforts to breathe.

Roy was reporting the lack of effect of the epinephrine just as the ambulance attendants brought the stretcher in.

"Roy, we both need to ride in with this guy."

Roy nodded. One or other of them would be on the ambu-bag the entire time, and they'd likely need another set of hands if—or more likely, _when_—the patient continued his downwards trend. Roy and the two attendants loaded the patient onto the stretcher as Johnny continued with the bagging.

The ride to Rampart was tense—the patient was barely conscious, but not unconscious, so they couldn't intubate him. Even if he'd been unconscious, Johnny thought as he continued bagging the patient, the airway was probably so inflamed they wouldn't be able to pass the tube anyhow.

Roy took over other duties as Johnny manned the ambu-bag. He cut away the patient's clothing, just to make sure they hadn't missed anything. He frowned at the pattern of the rash. On each arm, the rash ended in a sharp line, right where a short-sleeved shirt would end. The patient's neck and face were red and swollen, but his chest and torso were clear.

"Not hives, then," Roy said. "Weird." He picked up the biophone and relayed the new information to Rampart.

"Rampart, Squad 51. The patient's rash is only on the face and neck and in areas of the upper body that would not be covered by a short-sleeved shirt. Lower body is clear. The pattern is like a sunburn, but the rash looks more like hives or blisters."

"_Copy, 51_," said Dr. Brackett's voice. Roy pictured the "W" shape that Brackett's eyebrows made when he was flummoxed. This was likely one of those times. "_Continue bagging, no additional treatments at this time._"

"You need to swap?" Roy asked Johnny.

Johnny shook his head, not looking up as he concentrated on timing his squeezes of the bag with the patient's own respiratory efforts. "I'm good. We're almost there anyhow, right?"

"Two minutes to the doors," Roy said.

"Good. Tell them I'm barely getting anything in, here." Johnny frowned as he concentrated on forcing air through the patient's swollen airway, each squeeze of the bag requiring more force.

Roy relayed the information to Rampart, and looked over at the patient's face as he heard a high-pitched squeaking sound on each squeeze of the bag.

"Roy, I need another set of hands on the mask. I can't keep the mask on tight enough with one hand, and the air's leaking out every time I squeeze."

Roy pushed in right next to Johnny, and pressed the patient's jaw and the mask together hard enough for the seal to override the pressure of the oxygen-rich air Johnny was sending from the bag.

Roy shouted up to the driver. "Bill? Gonna need to you open the doors, 'cause all our hands are busy back here."

"Got it!"

The ambulance swooped under the raised second floor of the hospital, and backed into the slot by the ER doors. Bill hopped out and yanked the doors open. Dixie and two orderlies met the gurney at the ambulance doors.

"Treatment 2," said Dixie. "Kel's all set up for a trach."

"Not a second too soon," Johnny said. "He's exchanging next to nothing at this point."

The patient was unconscious, pale, and sweaty. His lips and fingertips were an alarming bluish color.

"Keep doing what you can," said Brackett. He and Dixie started the procedure, and quickly opened a hole below the man's larynx. Dixie attached the ventilator tube onto the end of the trach tube, and everyone stood back to see whether the ventilator would be able to do the job, or whether the lower airways were swollen shut too.

Everyone sighed in relief as the man's chest visibly rose and fell. He regained a healthier color—at least in the parts of his body that weren't covered with the blister-like rash.

As the patient's condition improved, the question of what had happened to him re-arose.

"He's clearly been exposed to something, and it looks like it was airborne," Kel said, almost to himself. "It got on any exposed skin, and he obviously inhaled it, too. But what?"

"He apparently didn't know himself," Johnny said, "from that note he wrote."

Brackett shook his head. "I don't like this," he said. "I'd normally sedate the hell out of him for a while, since it's no good letting patients wake up on a ventilator, but we have to get some more information from him."

As if the patient could hear him, he started stirring. His hands reached for the new pain in his throat, but Johnny quickly and gently restrained him.

"You're all right," Brackett said in a soothing tone. The patient's eyes darted back and forth wildly, and settled on Johnny—the most familiar of the group.

"You're at the hospital," Johnny said. "Try not to fight the breathing machine, okay?"

"Actually, I'll turn the ventilator off," said Dr. Brackett, "and just hook O2 up to the trach tube." He did so, and the patient seemed less panicked.

"I'm Dr. Brackett. Your airway—the tube that carries air to your lungs—swelled up so tightly you couldn't get any air through," Brackett explained. "I had to make a hole in your throat so you could get air in. Don't try to talk—just blink once for yes and twice for no. Do you understand?"

The man blinked once.

"Do you think you could write?"

The man blinked once, and Dixie handed him a pad and a pen.

"_Don't know what happened,_" he scrawled.

"I know. We're going to try to get to the bottom of that, with a little detective work, so we can see about fixing the problem," Brackett answered. "What it looks like, was you were exposed to something through the air. It got on your skin sometime when you were wearing a short-sleeved shirt. You also breathed it in. It was almost certainly within the last twelve to eighteen hours. Can you write me a list of everywhere you've been during that time?"

"_Just home_," the man wrote. "_Wife visiting mother. House to myself._"

"All right," Brackett said. "Did you do anything unusual during that time?"

"_Don't know,_" the man wrote.

"Were you outside at all?"

"_No_."

"Inside, the whole day?"

"_Yes_." The man frowned, and crossed out his "yes" as well as the preceding "no." "_Went outside to do some chores. Nothing unusual._"

"Did you mow the lawn?" Brackett asked.

"_No_."

"Use any chemicals—even ones you've used before?"

He pointed to his previous "no," and underlined "nothing unusual" on the line above.

"Did you do any cooking?"

"_No. Helpless in kitchen. Frozen dinner._"

Brackett frowned spectacularly. "All right. Here's what I'd like to do, with your permission. I'd like Gage and DeSoto—the two paramedics who helped you out and brought you in here—to go back to your house, and take a look around to see if they can figure anything out."

"_Yes. Garage & shed keys on hook by back door._"

"All right—go, boys. Call when you find something."

"Uh, Doc—we both came in on the ambulance," Roy pointed out. "And it's surely gone by now."

"You can take my car," Dixie said. "C'mon—I'll get you my keys."

They stopped at the nurses' station, and Dixie fished her keys out of her purse. "You know my car, right Johnny? It's about halfway towards the back of the employee lot, about in the middle."

"Tan Ford Maverick, right?"

"You got it."

"All right. We'll be back," Johnny said, as they trotted out to the parking lot.

Johnny drove, and Roy called in to dispatch on the HT.

"Dispatch, Squad 51. We've been directed by medical control to return to our last scene to look for a source of exposure. Requesting law enforcement to meet us there."

"_10-4, Squad 51. Law enforcement en route._"

They arrived back at the house just as the cruiser pulled up behind the squad.

"What do you have?" asked the deputy.

"Some kind of environmental exposure—the doc from Rampart wants us to look around. The patient gave permission, but, you know," Roy said uncomfortably.

"Yeah. Good to have a witness. All right—what are we looking for?"

"No idea," Johnny said. "Whatever it was got airborne somehow. Cleaning supplies, chemicals, anything. How about if one of us starts inside, and one person takes the shed, and the other the garage?"

"Sounds good," the deputy said. "I guess I'll take the garage—see what I can find."

"I'll take the shed," Johnny said.

"I'll poke around in the kitchen, first," said Roy. "And the bathroom."

They went their separate ways, each man thinking about every item they encountered. Johnny needed his flashlight to see anything in the shed. It was full of gardening supplies, but the man said he hadn't used any of them. He surveyed the yard, shining his light on each plant he encountered to see if there was anything unusual or poisonous. Nothing.

There was a neatly stacked wood pile under an extension of the roof of the shed. Johnny recalled the fireplace in the living room, and decided to take a closer look at the wood. He trotted back to the squad and pulled on a pair of leather gloves, and began unstacking the wood.

After picking up only three or four logs, Johnny found something. A hairy vine about three quarters of an inch thick snaked across one of the logs.

"Bingo," he said under his breath. He brought the log back into the house, and looked around the kitchen for a bag.

"Hey Roy?" he yelled, as he found a paper grocery bag, placing the log into the bag. "I think maybe I got it!"

He took his gloves off, placing them in the bag as well. He washed his hands thoroughly at the kitchen sink, and dried them on a towel. "Don't touch the bag," he cautioned, as Roy came into the kitchen. "I'll explain in a minute."

Johnny picked up the kitchen phone, and dialed Rampart. He was immediately put through to Dr. Brackett.

"Doc? I think I got it," Johnny said. "Ask him if he had a fire in his fireplace."

"_He says he did, in the evening_," Brackett said. "_What did you find?_"

"Poison ivy vines on the firewood."

Brackett sighed heavily into the phone. "_That explains it,_" he said. "_That has to be it. I'll start him on a course of steroids. Great work, Johnny. Great work._"

"No problem, Doc. I'll bring in a log, just so you can be sure, but I think we cracked this case."

"_Wide open,_" agreed Brackett. "_See you shortly_."

Roy went and fetched the deputy, who found the man's house keys, locked the house, and gave the keys to Roy. Johnny tossed the well-wrapped log in the back of the squad, and drove Dixie's car back to Rampart, with Roy leading in the squad.

Roy brought the log in to the emergency room, and showed it to Dr. Brackett, who was waiting at the nurses' station with a large textbook.

"That looks like a match, all right," Brackett said.

Roy looked over his shoulder, and noted the title on the top of each page: _Toxicology_. The picture of the vine certainly matched the log that Johnny had found.

"And we're on the right track, treatment wise. Steroids for inflammation, and supportive care as needed for ventilation and respiration. And right here, it says, 'cases with severe airway inflammation may require tracheotomy and artificial ventilation.'" Brackett lingered on the page for a few more seconds, and flipped the book shut, just as Johnny returned from reparking Dixie's car.

"How's he doing, Doc?" Johnny asked, setting the keys on the counter.

"Just fine, Johnny. He'll probably only need the trach for a day or so, and then he'll be fine. That was good work you two did today, first getting him in here alive and then finding the source of the problem. I have to admit, I was stumped," Brackett said.

"Us too, Doc, until Mr. Detective here found that log," said Roy.

"Well—good work, both of you. And, I'll be sure this log gets disposed of so it won't get touched or burned."

Johnny and Roy trudged back out to the squad.

"Squad 51, available and returning to quarters," Roy reported.

"_Squad 51, copy._"

"Well," Johnny said, as he buckled himself in, "as 'unknown type rescues' go, that one was pretty interesting. Got kind of hairy there in the ambulance, but it sounds like it's all going to turn out all right."

Roy looked at his watch at the stop sign by the parking lot exit. "We might even get an hour of shuteye, too."

"I could manage that," Johnny said.

Five minutes later, Roy backed the squad into the empty bay, and they were greeted by Henry. Roy checked the call log. "Engine's out at a structure fire with 8s."

"Bummer," said Johnny. "That'll probably take 'em past shift change."

They both washed up, trailed by Henry the entire way.

"C'mon, boy; back to bed," Johnny told the dog, as the three of them entered the empty dorm.

Henry whimpered at him, and looked at his dog bed, which looked forlorn and lonely next to Chet's empty bunk. He whimpered again.

"In your bed," Johnny said, pointing to the bed.

Henry put his head down, and walked over to his dog bed.

"Hey, Roy, look! Henry's doin' what I said! He's goin' to his bed, just like I told him to!"

"That's great," Roy said, his tone and his yawn expressing his disinterest. "Now _you_ go to _your_ bed."

Johnny stepped out of his pants and boots, and climbed into his bunk. He picked up his head when he heard a rustling from the other side of the room. He saw Henry grab his dog bed in his mouth, and drag it away from Chet's empty bunk. Johnny watched, mouth open, as Henry took his bed past Johnny's bunk, and dropped it on the floor at the foot of Roy's bunk. Henry looked at Johnny mournfully, climbed into his bed, circled a few times, and plopped himself down.

Johnny just shook his head. "And here I thought we were getting to be friends," he said. He closed his eyes, and was asleep instantly.

**TBC**


	3. Areas of Expertise

A/N: I have to admit I'm not entirely sure when 9-1-1 was introduced in L.A. County. Let's just pretend it was in full swing for this story.

**Chapter 3: Areas of Expertise**

It was one of those nights, at the L.A. County Dispatch Center. No time for a coffee break—heck, there'd hardly been time for bathroom breaks. Sam Lanier had been a dispatcher for seven years, ever since a knee injury knocked him out of active duty, and he knew when he came in for his shift that evening that it was going to be a doozy. It had been over a hundred degrees all day, and a nasty temperature inversion was keeping the hot air trapped on the city, so even now, at ten p.m., it was in the nineties. People were going crazy, all over the county, but especially in the more urban areas, where the heat was relentless.

Luckily for the firefighters, there'd been only one structure fire that day. But it had sent multiple firemen to the hospital with heat exhaustion. The various law enforcement agencies dispatched from the center had had their hands full, as had emergency medical services.

Sam's first call of the night sounded like it was going to be a bad domestic violence situation, from what the caller said.

"It sounds like they're killing each other in there!"

Great. Never a good sign.

"All right, sir. I need the address of the incident, your name, and a number we can call you back at."

The caller provided the information in such a panic that Sam had to ask him to slow down and repeat himself. He finally confirmed that he had the correct information, instructed the caller not to try to intervene in any way, and dispatched two cars to the scene.

Sam's line rang again as soon as he pressed the button on his phone that said he was ready for another call.

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"

"_My baby just ate a crayon!_"

One of the wonderful things about working dispatch was that you could make any facial expression you wanted, and nobody would care. Sam rolled his eyes, and replied. "Ma'am, is your baby breathing?"

"_Breathing? Yes, of course he's breathing, or I would've said he wasn't breathing! But he ate a crayon—the whole thing, I think—and I don't know if it's poisonous!_"

It sounded ridiculous to Sam, but it wasn't his job to decide that. It was his job to decide who to send.

"All right, ma'am. I need your name, and your address, and a number where we can call back, please."

She gave him the information, a little more calmly than the last caller—but not much.

"Try to keep the baby calm and quiet, and we'll have the paramedics out there shortly."

Sam felt ridiculous as he toned out Squad 36, and announced the call. "Squad 36, child swallowed a foreign object. 2387 North Bradshaw. 2-3-8-7 North Bradshaw, cross street Lilac. Time out: 2214."

He was glad that dispatch protocol did not entail stating what the child had swallowed. He wished, for the thousandth time, that there were a way to tell them not to respond with lights and sirens. A crayon, for Pete's sake. It would probably make for a colorful diaper, but calling 9-1-1?

When Squad 36 acknowledged the call, Sam once again opened his line, knowing it wouldn't be long until his phone rang again.

He wasn't disappointed.

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"

"_My girlfriend really needs help, right now!_"

Oh boy. Sam recognized panic in the man's voice, so he knew he needed to get the location right away.

"All right—what's the address she's at right now?"

"_Uh, her apartment—uh, 2389 Hanshaw, apartment 3-F. In Carson._"

"Is that where you are, too?"

"_Yes—I'm telling you, she needs help, right now! Oh shit—_" And the line clicked dead.

"Sir?" _Shit_.

Sam keyed the information into their new computer system, and a page of information came up. The address had a long and recent history of calls—extreme intoxication, possible overdose, domestic violence, and on, and on. There was a flag from the Sheriff's department to respond law enforcement to any incident at the address.

First things first. Sam dispatched a Sheriff's car to the location, explaining the unknown nature of the call and the history of incidents. The deputy instructed him to have the paramedics wait to enter the premises until the law enforcement unit arrived. Then he hit the button to tone out the nearest available Fire Department station. For this type of call, the "help" the girlfriend needed might be anything from getting unstuck from a curling iron—which Sam sincerely doubted, based both on the address and the tone of the caller—to needing treatment for a gunshot wound, to needing to be rescued from a gang, or anything in between. Whatever it was, manpower would likely be needed. And if it wasn't, whoever wasn't needed would call themselves in as available as soon as they could.

"Station 51, unknown type rescue. 2389 Hanshaw apartment 3-F as in Frank, 2-3-8-9 Hanshaw apartment 3-F as in Frank, cross street Gardena Ave. Law enforcement is en route and advises to await their arrival before entering premises. Time out: 2222." An auspicious number, for a probably inauspicious call.

"_Station 51, KMG-365._"

Sometimes he missed the action of his old career, but today, Sam sure didn't envy whoever was at the other end of that radio transmission.

~!~!~!~

"Crap—I hate going to this place. Seems like we bail them out of trouble and then they just jump right back into it, all on their own."

"You remember our last call to that apartment?" Roy asked.

"Yeah—the one where the cops canceled us on arrival, because it turned out just to be a shouting match?"

"Uh-huh—and how 'bout the one before that?"

Johnny squinted and looked up to the corner of the cab, as if he might find an answer there. "Oh, yeah! When the chick smashed the picture frame over the guy's head, and claimed she didn't realize it would hurt him, 'cause they do that in the movies all the time?"

"Uh huh, except without glass in the frame. Sheesh."

They pulled into the apartment complex, and Roy turned towards building three.

"At least they don't have kids," Johnny commented, as he exited the squad.

Roy made a face. "Bite your tongue, Junior."

They pulled out their first-in equipment, and dutifully waited for the cop car to show up.

The engine pulled into the lot, and Mike parked it next to a hydrant, for good measure. The four members of the engine company trooped over to the squad.

"Hate these," Johnny said, to anyone who would listen, which at that particular moment was everyone, since all six men were thinking the same thing.

A minute later, a black-and-white pulled up in front of the squad, and two deputies emerged.

"Howdy, fellas," said one. "Here's the story: the guy called in that his girlfriend needed help, and then hung up. We're here about every other day, and I can tell you personally, this couple is freakin' nuts—both of 'em. So it'll go like this: we go in, make sure the scene is safe. You two medics wait on the landing outside, and don't come in unless and until I say. You other four, wait down here. After the medics check the situation out, we'll either call you in or dismiss you. Got it?"

"Got it," Roy and Johnny said in unison. Cap nodded.

"All right. Here we go."

The two deputies, trailed by Johnny and Roy, went up the flight of stairs and across the outdoor corridor that the apartment doors opened onto. A window slammed shut as they walked past, and the deputies ignored the sweet herbal aroma as they headed to Apartment F which, of course, was at the very end of the corridor. Johnny and Roy hung back by the door to Apartment E.

The first deputy positioned himself at the door, and the second put his back against the wall beside the door. They nodded to each other, and the first man pounded on the door.

"Police! Open the door!"

To everyone's surprise, the door opened immediately. A young man in a t-shirt and ratty cut-offs came through the door, hands in the air.

"She's in the bedroom. I can't wake her up."

"Hands on the wall, feet apart," the second deputy ordered. The man complied, and the deputy frisked him down.

The man looked at Johnny and Roy and all their equipment. "Come on, aren't you gonna help her?"

Johnny rocked back and forth on his feet, ready to spring into action when he was given the word, but didn't move yet.

The deputy finished frisking the man.

"Anyone else in there, besides the girl?"

"No," the young man said sullenly.

"You stay put," the deputy warned. "Let's go in, Ed," he said to his partner.

The two deputies moved cautiously into the apartment. Roy and John stayed where they were, waiting to be called in, or not. The man looked nervously at them, and their equipment. He looked at the dead-end of the outdoor corridor, and the four-man engine crew below. He looked back at Johnny and Roy, who were between him and the stairs. He bit his lip, and before anyone realized what his plan was, he vaulted over the railing, got a foothold on the opposite side of the railing, grabbed the bottom rail, and dropped the remaining six feet to the ground.

He rolled as he hit the ground, and came up running—right towards the engine crew, who had unwittingly positioned themselves in the middle of the man's escape route. Chet raised his hands and tensed his muscles, ready to make a grab for the fleeing man, but Cap grabbed Chet by the shoulder first.

"No way, Kelly. Not our area of expertise."

Cap kept his hand on Chet's shoulder as the man flew past them, and felt Chet's shoulders fall as the fleeing man disappeared behind the next building.

Chet looked back at Cap. "Yeah. I know. It was just kind of an instinctual reaction, you know?"

Cap patted Chet firmly on the shoulder. "I know. Good man. It's not our specialty. We expect the cops to stay out of the burning buildings; they expect us to leave potentially armed and dangerous individuals to them."

"It was awful tempting to stick a leg out and trip him, though," Mike said. "I didn't think he looked dangerous. Scared, yes. Dangerous? Not really."

Marco shook his head. "Sometimes scared people are dangerous because they're scared, though. And Cap's right, Mike. Not our area of expertise."

"I think we all know that," Cap said. "But here's what I'm wondering: what's he scared of?"

Nobody answered, but four pairs of eyes gazed up to the outdoor corridor outside Apartment F.

Johnny and Roy waited dutifully, as they'd been told. A minute later, one of the deputies returned to the door.

"Come on back. It's just the girl, like the guy—hey, where'd he go?"

Johnny pointed to the ground. "Vaulted over the railing, and took off like a bat out of hell."

"Terrific. Well, come on back. Looks like the girl is out cold."

Johnny and Roy followed the deputy into the apartment, to the bedroom, where the first deputy was watching over the still figure of a young woman.

She was lying prone on the bed, one arm splayed out to her side, and the other trapped underneath her body. Her eyes were closed, and at first, she didn't appear to be moving at all. But on closer inspection, her rib cage moved slightly, every five seconds or so.

One deputy stood between the bed and the wall, and the other placed himself in the bedroom doorway.

Johnny and Roy took the other side of the bed. Johnny laid the oxygen cylinder on the foot of the bed, and Roy placed his equipment on the floor by the head of the bed.

"She's breathing, but that's about all I can tell from here. Let's roll her," Roy said. "Towards us, on my count. One, two, three—"

With a screech like sheet metal being torn in half, the woman suddenly surged to life. She raised her previously hidden arm, along with the foot-long knife she clenched in that hand.

"Knife!" the deputy on the other side of the bed shouted.

She went straight for him, shrieking so loudly it made every eardrum in the room buzz. Without hesitation, she plunged the knife towards the deputy, who instinctively tried to protect himself with a raised arm.

The deputy yelled as the knife went straight through his forearm and out the other side. He fell against the wall, instantly as pale as the cheap landlord-white paint on the walls, and slid to the floor, the knife lodged in his forearm to the hilt.

The deputy at the door grabbed the woman, who was all of five-three and a hundred and twenty pounds, and took her down to the floor, laying her out face down. He wrenched first one arm, and then the other, behind her back, and cuffed her, in ten seconds flat. The woman continued her shrieking, and added hissing and spitting to her nonverbal repertoire. She banged her head and face repeatedly against the fortunately carpeted floor, until the deputy switched his position and restrained her head to prevent her from harming herself.

The deputy looked up from the woman.

"Get your men," he ordered Roy, who flew out the door.

Johnny leaped across the bed, and landed next to the impaled deputy.

"Ohgodohgodohgod," he was saying, staring at the knife embedded in his arm. "Get it out! Get it out, fucking get it out!"

"Don't pull it out!" Johnny said, as the injured man reached for his hurt arm. Johnny knew from experience not to make any sudden moves towards an upset person with a gun on his belt, so he held his hands out appeasingly, and locked his gaze with that of the injured cop. Blood dripped down the man's arm, coating his hand with dark red blood.

"You're gonna be all right—but you can't pull the knife out, because that might make it bleed more, okay?"

"Listen to him, Ed," the other deputy said.

Five pairs of feet pounded into the room. Cap surveyed the situation, and whipped out the handi-talkie.

"Dispatch, from Engine 51. We need two ambulances and an additional law enforcement unit at our location."

"_10-4, 51._"

"You guys hold her down," the deputy ordered Cap, shouting over her continued screeching. "Watch her—she tried to bite me already."

"She won't get through a turnout coat," Cap muttered, as he and Mike took the top end of the woman, and Chet and Marco took her legs.

The room was the definition of chaos. Roy set up the biophone, while the engine crew struggled to hold the frenzied woman down without hurting her, and Johnny and the uninjured deputy dealt with the wounded officer.

"Bitch fucking stabbed me. It fucking hurts, Pete," Ed said plaintively to his partner. His skin was alarmingly pale and sweaty.

"I'm gonna take a look now, Ed, okay?" Johnny said.

"Yeah. Okay."

Johnny examined the wound, and noted a steady flow of dark red blood. No spurting, no bright crimson streams ebbing and flowing in time with the man's rapid pulse.

"Ohgodohgodohgod, I'm gonna bleed to death," Ed moaned.

"No, you're not," Johnny said calmly. "There's no arterial bleeding, which is really lucky." He climbed back over the bed, and got the oxygen tank. "I'm gonna give you some oxygen, all right?"

"But—but—you gotta get the knife out!"

"No," Johnny explained calmly, as he looped the elastic of the mask over the man's head. "We can't take it out here, because even though it missed the arteries on the way in, that doesn't mean it'd miss 'em on the way out. Plus, the knife might be pressing on something and keeping it from bleeding more. So what I'm gonna do is stabilize it in place so it can't move on the way to the hospital, and then the docs will take care of it there, all right?"

Ed let his head flop back against the wall. "Okay," he said in a small voice, which was barely audible over the constant shrieking.

Roy was dealing with his own problem on the other side of the room. "Rampart, this is Squad 51. We have two patients. The first is a female, approximately twenty-five years old. She appears uninjured, but is currently being restrained after stabbing the second patient and attempting self injury. She is unresponsive to questions, and screaming continuously. Pulse is 140 and regular, BP is not currently obtainable, and respirations are fourteen, but all exhalation is screaming. We can't rule out medical reasons for her behavior at this time."

"_Copy, 51. Administer ten milligrams diazepam, IM, and repeat vitals._"

"Ten milligrams diazepam, IM, copy. Rampart, I'm transferring you to the other paramedic for the second patient."

Roy handed the biophone over to Johnny. They didn't usually switch off on who was talking, but this situation warranted a deviation from their routine.

Johnny picked up the handset of the biophone. "The second patient is a male, approximately thirty years old. His right forearm is impaled by a kitchen knife, with a maximum blade width of approximately four centimeters. There are no signs of arterial bleeding, but there has been venous blood loss of approximately five hundred cc's. Pulse is 110, BP is 100/65, and respirations are 20 and shallow. Skin is cool, pale, and moist. Patient is on O2, fifteen liters per minute via non-rebreather. He appears to be in significant pain. The object has not yet been stabilized."

"_Continue O2. Start an IV, Ringer's, and administer ten milligrams MS, IV. Stabilize the object and transport immediately._"

"10-4, Rampart. IV of Ringer's, ten milligrams MS, IV, stabilize the object and transport."

Johnny looked back at Ed. "All right—the doc says you need an IV, for some fluid to replace the blood you've lost, and I'll also give you something to help with the pain," he said, as he started setting up the IV. "When you're feeling a little better, I'm gonna splint everything up there, so nothing moves on the way to the hospital. Okay?"

Ed reached up to his face with his left hand, and pulled the mask off.

"Gonna puke," he said.

Johnny whipped a rectangular plastic-lined bag out of his kit, and held it in front of Ed's face. Ed made good on his threat, becoming even more pale than he had been.

Johnny looked at Pete. "I need you to handle this end of things," he said, handing control of the bag over to Ed's partner. Pete paled as he felt the warmth of the bag, but continued to hold it where it needed to be.

Johnny started the IV in Ed's left arm, and slowly pushed the morphine. Ed looked up in alarm. "The hell is that shit?"

Johnny raised his eyebrows. "Well, that's not usually the reaction it gets. It's morphine. Is the pain any better?"

Ed ignored Johnny, and instead looked at Pete, and laughed. "I'm fuckin' high, man! On the job!"

Pete just patted Ed's shoulder. "That's okay. You're off duty now."

"I am?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Okay." Ed settled back into the wall, and didn't protest as Pete put the oxygen mask back on his face.

"Pete, we're gonna need to switch places, here, so I can work on that arm," Johnny said. "And try to keep him distracted, if you can," he said in a whisper, as he crossed in front of Pete.

"Sure." Pete folded the top of the barf bag over, set it aside, and stepped over Ed's outstretched legs.

Johnny climbed over the bed, and grabbed the bandage bag and the splint box. He glanced at Roy's patient, whose screams had devolved into mercifully quiet moans. He reached Ed's right side, and started his engineering project.

Five minutes, piles of gauze, and yards of Kling-wrap later, the knife and Ed's arm were immobilized and firmly affixed to an arm board. Ed was ready to go to the hospital.

"Roy, what's your patient's status?" Johnny asked.

"Rampart just had me give her five more milligrams of diazepam, so we can get her in safely. We're not quite ready to transport yet, here, so if you're ready, go ahead. There's two more deputies in the living room with Cap, so if your guy's partner wants to ride in with him he can. I'm sure one of the other guys would ride in with me."

Johnny looked over at Pete, who was still going strong at distracting Ed from both the pain and the sight of the knife sticking through his arm.

"Don't think there's any question about whether the partner is gonna ride in," Johnny said. "Anyhow—we're gonna roll. Catch you at Rampart."

Johnny and Pete got Ed loaded onto the waiting Mayfair gurney, down the stairs, and into the ambulance. The second Mayfair rig was waiting, as were flocks of yammering bystanders.

"Oh, man! That's a cop on the stretcher! Somebody's in biiiiiiig trouble."

"Was it that fuckin' Billy and Christine again?"

"I dunno—Billy ran past my place a few minutes ago."

"I can see either him or Christine stabbing a cop. Aw, man—that's gross! Lookit that knife!"

~!~!~!~

Back at the apartment, Roy faced another challenge.

"You have to uncuff her," he said to the deputy who was going to ride in with them.

"No way, man. Cuffs stay on."

"Officer, she's heavily sedated. She won't be able to do a thing."

"Cuffs stay on," the deputy repeated.

"Listen. I can't transport her face down. I can have the doctor at Rampart tell you that, if you prefer."

The deputy glared at Roy. "Fine. I'll uncuff her, but at soon as she's on the stretcher, the cuffs go back on, hands in front."

"Fine."

The deputy keyed the cuffs open, and he and Roy transferred the patient to the Mayfair gurney. As the deputy promised, he replaced the cuffs as soon as he could. As he did so, the woman spoke, for the first time.

"Kill you all."

Neither Roy nor the deputy was foolish enough to reply.

"All you men."

A single tear fell down the woman's face as Roy finished tightening the straps on the stretcher. She closed her eyes, and kept them closed for the entire trip to Rampart.

**TBC**


	4. Nobody Knows the Troubles I've Seen

**Chapter 4: Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen**

.

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"

"_Uh …_"

"Sir? Can you tell me what's wrong?"

" … _lotta blood._"

"Are you bleeding?"

"_I dunno._"

"All right, sir, where are you right now?"

"_At home._"

"What's your address?"

"_It's the same as always._"

"Okay, but I don't know it. Tell me, so I can send you some help."

"_Oh. It's, uh, 5225 Parker Ave._"

"Five two two five Parker Avenue?"

"_No, fifty-two twenty-five._"

Sam shook his head. He'd obviously be sending paramedics for this one. "All right. Can you tell me your phone number?"

Several second passed.

"Sir? Can you tell me your telephone number?"

"_Uh … I don't think so._"

"Sometimes it's written on your phone, above the dial or the keypad. Is there a number there?"

"_Oh. Yeah._"

Sam rolled his eyes at himself, and decided not to ask this one any more yes/no questions_. _"What's the number that's written there?"

"_Uh, 555-5972_."

Sam repeated back the number, and still wasn't sure if he had the right information. "Don't hang up, sir, please. Help is on its way, but I'd like you to stay on the line."

"_All right_." Click.

Shit.

Sam dispatched paramedics and a Mayfair rig to the address, and then sent law enforcement as well, since it appeared that the person might not be of sound mind, and it wasn't clear what had happened. Except that there was blood.

Sam keyed in the callback number, and the phone rang twice.

"_Hello?_"

"This is the 9-1-1 dispatch center. Did I just speak with you?"

There was a pause of several seconds. "_Uh, maybe. I was talking on the phone, I think._"

Yep. Right guy. "Let's just keep talking for a few minutes. What's your name?"

"_Bill. Uh, something happened. There's a lot of blood_."

"All right. Are you injured?"

Pause. "_I don't know._"

"Is there anyone else there with you?"

"_No_."

"How old are you, Bill?"

"_Thirty four._"

"What's your last name?"

"_Schmidt._"

"What's your address?"

"_5225 Parker Ave._"

"Is that where you are now?"

"_I think so. I feel strange._"

"Do you know what happened?"

A long pause—long enough that Sam thought Bill had passed out. "_No. My head hurts, and there's a lot of blood._"

"Bill, I want you to sit down, all right?"

"_Okay. I'll just sit on the floor._"

"That's fine."

"_I don't feel well._"

"I know. Bill, in just a minute, some firemen are going to come to your door. They're going to help you."

"_Okay._" There was a long pause. "_I'm really dizzy._"

"Bill, do you know if you had any alcohol, or drugs, or anything like that?"

"_I don't think so._"

"All right. Let's just talk a little more."

As he kept the fellow on the line, just making small talk, Sam thumbed through his dog-eared reverse-lookup phone book, and looked up the number the caller had given. It matched the name and address. So as long as the guy was where he thought he was, Squad 51 would get to him, any second now. He needed to keep the caller on the line, though, in case he wasn't where he thought he was.

"Bill, I want you to keep talking to me. Tell me what you see in the room you're in now."

"_Just my furniture. And some stuff. And a lot of blood on the rug._"

"Can you see out the window?"

"_Yeah_."

Damn. Yes/no question again. "What do you see out the window?"

"_I dunno—I think there's something going on, because there's flashing red lights. Oh—sorry—I gotta go. There's someone at the door. Bye_."

The line went dead. Sam let out a long breath, and turned his phone line off. He needed a break.

~!~!~!~

Roy pounded on the door for a second time. "Fire department!" he shouted.

"I hope we don't hafta break in," Johnny muttered. "Remember how mad that last lady was, when—"

The door swung open.

Standing in the door was a young man, his face and clothing covered in blood.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

Johnny and Roy struggled to keep their faces impassive. The man's calm, normal tone was a complete mismatch with his appearance.

As was their routine with patients with altered mental status, Roy stepped forward. "Uh, sir, it looks like you hurt yourself. You're covered with blood. Can we come in and help you out?"

"Oh. Yeah. Are you the firemen? The guy on the phone said you were coming. Come on in."

Roy and Johnny stepped into the foyer, and noted a large amount of blood at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the second floor.

"I'm Roy DeSoto, and I'm a paramedic with the fire department. What's your name?" Roy asked, as Johnny started unpacking the equipment he knew they'd need: oxygen, bandages, the biophone, an IV set.

"Bill Schmidt."

"Is this where you hurt yourself?"

"I don't know. Did I get hurt?"

"Yeah. You have a big cut on your forehead, up into your scalp."

Bill reached for his forehead, and frowned at his hand when it came away bloody.

"I don't remember anything."

"You called 9-1-1 for help, though. That's good. Why don't you sit down, right over here, and we'll take a look."

"All right. I don't feel so good."

"How are you feeling?" Roy asked.

"Uh, kind of dizzy, sick to my stomach. Tired. What happened, anyhow?"

"We don't know. What's the last thing you remember?"

Bill frowned, which turned into wincing, and his hand went to his forehead again. "I remember having dinner. I think I washed the dishes. Oh yeah—I splashed water on myself, and I had to go upstairs to change. That's it, though. I don't remember anything after that."

"Do you know what time you had dinner?"

"Uh, well, I was watching the news, so …"

"Probably six o'clock, or around there. And it's just after nine now. Any idea what you've been doing during those three hours?" Roy asked.

"No. This is really weird," Bill said. At the same time as his speech was becoming more coherent, he started to realize how odd his situation was.

Johnny stepped in with his BP cuff and stethoscope. "Bill, I'm John Gage, another paramedic. I'm just gonna get your BP and pulse, and then I'm gonna talk to a doctor on that radio phone there."

"All right." He looked at Johnny. "What in the world happened? I mean, I see all the blood, and I guess it's mine."

"We're not sure yet, Bill. Just sit quietly for a second, all right?"

Johnny inflated the cuff, and listened to the artery with his stethoscope as he let the pressure out slowly. He wrote the readings down in his notebook, and took Bill's pulse, while Roy put an oxygen mask on him and explained what he was doing as he started to bandage the wound.

Johnny went around behind Bill and Roy, and activated the biophone.

"Rampart, this is Squad 51; how do you read?"

"_Loud and clear, 51. Go ahead._"

"Rampart, we have a male patient, approximately thirty-five years old, conscious, alert but disoriented, and breathing. Pupils are equal and reactive. He has a six-inch laceration extending horizontally from mid-forehead, over his right ear, and into the right side of his scalp, with evidence of significant blood loss. Bleeding has slowed to an ooze at this time. The patient does not remember injuring himself, and does not remember anything from approximately the last three hours. Pulse is ninety and regular, BP is 100/70, and respirations are 20. He states he's dizzy and nauseous."

"_Copy, 51. Bandage the wound, apply high-flow oxygen, start an IV with D5W, TKO, and transport._"

"10-4, Rampart. Bandage, O2, IV D5W TKO, and transport. The ambulance is arriving now; ETA approximately ten minutes."

Roy started the IV, while Johnny packed up the equipment. The Mayfair attendants entered with their gurney, with Vince Howard trailing them.

"Roy, John. What's going on?"

"Howdy, Vince," said Roy. "This is Bill Schmidt. He has a pretty significant head wound, and doesn't remember how it happened."

"I see," said Vince, pulling out his notebook. "Mr. Schmidt, is it correct that you have no recollection of how you got injured?"

"Yeah. This is totally weird."

"Is anything missing from your house, as far as you know?"

"Uh, what do you mean?"

"We need to make sure this was an accident, and that you weren't assaulted and robbed."

"Uh. Geez. Should I look around?"

Roy looked at Vince and shook his head.

"No," Vince said, "we can take care of that later, when you're feeling better. For now, I'll just have a look around really fast, and let's make sure we lock up when you leave. Are these your house keys, here? If so, I'll lock up for you, and bring them to you at the hospital." Vince pointed to a bunch of keys on a table in the foyer.

"Yeah. And, uh, does someone know what happened?"

"No," Roy replied patiently. "You don't remember, and nobody else was here. All right—I'm going to help you onto the stretcher."

Roy and the attendants loaded Bill onto the gurney, and took off in the Mayfair rig.

Johnny picked up some of their medical debris, as Vince looked through the house.

"Looks normal to me, except for the blood at the bottom of the stairs, here. Though I'll need to get a statement from you, Gage, and I'll see DeSoto and the patient at Rampart."

"Sure, Vince. We didn't go beyond the foyer here—not at all. We figure you might want us to keep out of the place, once we realized the guy had no idea what happened."

"Sure looks like maybe he took a tumble down his stairs, though, doesn't it," Vince said.

"Could be." Johnny shook his head. "Man, that's a weird one. The worst thing is, he's probably never gonna remember what happened. For the rest of his life, he'll look in the mirror, and see that scar, and wonder what—"

Vince looked down at Johnny, who'd stopped what he was doing.

"What, John?"

"I just realized something. The cut was on the middle of his forehead, into the right side, but you know what? The top of his forehead, and all his hair, were bloody too. I mean, the top of his head was totally caked with coagulated blood. So he must have been lying on his back, maybe even with his head tipped back a bit, for some time."

Vince wrote the information down. He went over to the stairs, and looked carefully at the edge of each step, and the railings.

"Hey, Johnny, come look at this."

Vince shone his flashlight on the handrail. There was a screw head protruding ever so slightly from the rail, where it attached to the bracket that held it to the wall. On the screw head, there was a small piece of skin, some blood, and a few hairs.

"I'll be right back," Vince said. He went out to his car, and came back with a plastic bag and some tweezers. He removed the gory bit from the screw, and wrote something on the bag.

"Looks like maybe you found the culprit, huh?"

"Yep. If the blood type on this sample here matches your patient, I think the Sheriff will be satisfied this was an accident. Especially if there's nothing missing."

"Makes sense to me," said Johnny, as he packed up the last of their equipment. "And look here—I'm no expert, but the amount of blood here looks like it could've come from that wound over a period of some minutes. I bet he was lying right here at the bottom of the stairs, unconscious, for a few minutes."

"Could be," Vince said, nodding. "Well—I'd better get to Rampart. I'll see you there, huh? And I'll get statements from you and Roy, just in case."

"All right."

~!~!~!~

_Three days later: Rampart._

"Hey, Johnny, Roy?"

"Yeah, Dix?" Roy answered.

"Remember on your last shift, you two brought in a guy with a head wound? The guy who didn't remember anything?"

"Oh, yeah! I'll never forget that one," Johnny said. "Why? How'd he turn out?"

"Oh, just fine. They admitted him for a couple days, and couldn't find anything wrong. He went home this morning, and asked me to let you guys know he was doing okay."

"Oh," Johnny said. "That's weird that he remembered us."

Dixie shook her head. "He didn't—not really. He knew someone must have helped him out. So he just said to say thanks to whoever did."

"He's entirely welcome," Roy said. "Did he ever remember anything?"

"Not a thing. But the police were satisfied that it was an accident, and not an assault. But he'll have a hole of a few hours in his life, probably forever."

"To match the hole in his head," Johnny said.

Dixie glared at him, and Roy just rolled his eyes.

"What?" Johnny said. "I'd never say that in front of a patient. You know that."

"Yeah, Junior. We know. Come on—let's get back to it."

"And hope for no more 'unknown type rescues.'"

**TBC**

A/N: Of _course_ there will be more, Johnny! But not until probably the second week in January, because it's that time of year.


	5. Magic

**Chapter 5: Magic**

The shift had been busy—but only for the squad. It had been one run after another, starting during roll call. It was Johnny's turn to cook, but by early on in the shift Cap had switched the assignment to Mike, to everyone's relief. The engine had been on a few minor runs, but the squad had been running non-stop since their first call—their monthly "child with head trapped in banister," which they were toned out for at 0803. That had been followed by a call to an office where someone had somehow stapled their finger into a booklet with a heavy-duty stapler. Why the office manager hadn't just taken the man to the hospital, booklet and all, was beyond the comprehension of either Roy or John, but they did their job straight-faced, and laughed later in the squad. The back to back calls continued all day, carrying them through lunch without a break. They were finally back in quarters, just in time to sit down for dinner.

"Maybe we'll actually get a break for long enough to—"

"Don't _say_ it, Roy!" Johnny warned, punctuating his command with his waving fork. "Don't even _think_ about finishing that thought!"

"–long enough to finish our supper," Roy continued calmly. "C'mon, Johnny; you know I'm not into all this superstition. It's not like the universe can somehow hear what I'm saying and give us a nasty run in the middle of dinner, just because I hope that we don't get one."

"Yeah, well, the way I figure it, you just can't be too careful," Johnny grumbled.

"I'm with you on that one, Gage," Marco said. "I can't tell you how many times someone has said something like that and five minutes later—bam!"

"Yeah, but how about all the times when someone says something like that and five minutes later, nothing?" Mike said. "Or, nobody says anything of the kind, and five minutes later we get toned out? Saying or thinking you want it to be quiet doesn't have anything to do with whether or not it's gonna be quiet. And you don't remember the things that don't seem to support some idea you already have."

Everyone stared at Mike.

"What?" he said.

"Uh, pal, that was more than you said the entire rest of the shift put together," Cap said.

"More than the whole _week_ all put together," Chet added.

"Well, maybe I just didn't have anything to say earlier. But just then, I did." Mike served himself some more green beans. "Magical thinking, is what that's called. When you believe that the power of what you say or think somehow influences events that are really outside your control."

"What are you, a specialist of some kind, all of a sudden?" Marco said.

"Well, his title _is_ Firefighter/Specialist Stoker," Chet said. "But somehow I don't think that's what it means."

Johnny looked at Chet. "What do you think, Chet? Do you think people should avoid saying stuff like what Roy was saying?"

Chet shook his head. "I'm gonna stay outta this one, guys."

This time everyone stared at Chet.

"Who _are_ you guys," Cap said, "and what have you done with my crew?"

"Now that _would_ be magical," Roy said. "If we were all suddenly abducted by aliens and replaced with exact duplicates of ourselves, who just behaved slightly differently."

Johnny shook his head in disgust. "And this from the guy who thinks _I'm_ strange," he said. "Could you pass the potatoes, please, Stoker?"

Mike handed the dish across the table to Johnny.

"Anyone else want any more of these potatoes?" Johnny asked, as he held the bowl over his plate.

Nobody replied. "Go for it, Gage," said Cap. "At least _someone_ is normal today," he muttered under his breath.

The men finished their dinner, and Johnny and Roy started cleaning up the kitchen. Just as Roy squeezed the dish soap into the hot water running into the sink, the tones sounded.

BWAAMP, BWOOP BWEEEEEEP!

"_Squad 51, meet with law enforcement for evaluation of suspect with unknown medical complaint at the grocery store, 3156 Templeton, 3-1-5-6 Templeton, cross street McLean. Time out: 1858._"

Roy stripped off his yellow rubber gloves, and Mike snatched a dish towel off of Johnny's shoulder as they trotted out to the squad, for their tenth run of the day.

"Wonder what this is gonna be," Johnny said, as they pulled out of the bay.

"Maybe somebody trying to get out of being arrested by pretending to be sick?" Roy said.

"Nah, then they'd tell us what they thought was wrong. Odd behavior, maybe? That could account for the arrest and the possible medical problem."

"Well, we'll see it when we see it," Roy said. "And—did you notice we made it all the way through dinner, and even got out of doing the dishes, even though I angered the Fire Gods by hoping for a break?"

"Yeah, yeah," Johnny said. "Whatever. I still think it's a mistake to—take the next left—no, I don't mean it's a mistake to take the next left—yeah, this one—but what I meant, was, I still think it's a mistake to tempt fate. Here's the cross street."

Roy pulled the squad into the fire lane in front of the grocery store, and they unloaded their equipment from the compartments. A man in a suit rushed up to them as they headed through the entrance.

"Come quick! We thought he was just nuts, but now he's having some kind of seizure!"

The store manager led them into a side area of the store, where a sheriff's deputy was moving furniture away from their patient, who was indeed having a grand mal seizure. Johnny put an oxygen mask onto the patient's face, while Roy set up the biophone.

"What was happening before he started to seize?" Johnny asked.

The manager spoke up. "I called the cops because he was walking around the store doing really weird things—putting cosmetics in the freezers, trying to open a can with his teeth, and asking people for money. He was all sweaty and shaky, like he was maybe on something. And he was kind of hostile, too. So I called the cops, and then they called for you guys. I feel terrible—I guess he was really sick or something."

"Or something," Johnny agreed. "Did anyone see him fall, or anything like that?" He palpated the seizing man's skull as well as he could in the circumstances, and found no indication of trauma. Roy, meanwhile, reported the situation to Rampart.

"No," said the deputy. "He was in that chair when he started having the seizure, and I got him down to the floor as gently as I could."

Johnny's next stop was the man's wrists, and he found exactly what he thought he would find. He held the man's arm down just enough to read the words on the MedicAlert bracelet.

"Hey, Roy?"

"Diabetic?" Roy asked.

"Yep."

"Rampart, patient has a MedicAlert tag confirming diabetes. We're unable to get an IV line in at this time due to the seizure."

"_10-4, 51; administer glucagon, one milligram, IM._"

"One milligram glucagon IM, 10-4."

Johnny was already reconstituting the drug he knew Rampart would order. He cut through the man's pant leg, and administered the injection into the patient's thigh muscle as Roy held his leg as still as possible.

"Glucagon in," Johnny said.

"Rampart, glucagon is on board," Roy reported.

"_Copy, 51. When the seizing stops, get an IV line in, and administer D10W and transport._"

Within a minute, the seizure tapered off. A minute later, the man's eyelids started to flutter, and he tugged at the oxygen mask on his face and tried to sit up.

"Oh, shit," he mumbled.

"Sir? We're paramedics with the LA County Fire Department. It looks like you had a hypoglycemic episode; you had a seizure and we just treated you with a glucagon injection." Roy helped him sit up, since he seemed to want to, and it wouldn't hurt him.

"Crap," the man said, sounding stronger. He looked around, and saw a man in a suit, a sheriff's deputy, and two firemen. "I remember—we're at a grocery store, right?"

"Yes," Roy replied.

"I stopped on the way home from work, to get some juice, because I was starting to feel like my sugar was getting low. I guess I was too late. Again." The man buried his head in his hands. "Jesus, this is so embarrassing."

"Uh, could someone please explain this?" the store manager asked.

"When a diabetic's blood sugar gets too low, they can start having unusual behavior. Whatever happened was because of that," Roy explained. "Not under his control. Not his fault," he said, partly to the manager and the deputy, and partly to the patient.

"I thought it might be something like that," the deputy said.

"And it's a good thing you did, too," the patient said, casually filling in what Roy and Johnny were carefully not voicing. "Because this sort of thing can be fatal. Right?" He looked at Johnny, who was setting up the IV.

"It could," Johnny said, "but you're gonna be fine. The hospital told us to give you an IV with a sugar solution, and to bring you in, all right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I know the drill. Damn it, every time we have a late meeting, something like this happens. Well—" he winced as Johnny deftly inserted the IV line— "obviously not _this_ bad, but you know."

Roy began packing up the equipment, just as the ambulance attendants wheeled the low gurney in.

"Am I in trouble?" the man asked, finally, looking back and forth between the manager and the deputy.

"No, no; of course not," the manager said hastily. "I mean, we had to call him—" he tilted his head towards the deputy— "because, well … uh …"

The patient sighed, as the attendants buckled him onto the gurney. "I know, I know; I was acting like I was on something, or crazy, or whatever. Look—I'll call the store when I get home, and pay for anything I damaged or anything like that."

The manager shook his head. "No, no harm done. I just wish I'd understood what was happening so we could've gotten you help sooner."

"Thanks," the man said. "I appreciate it—really."

Johnny left with the gurney, and Roy picked up the equipment. After the patient left, the manager spoke up again.

"I still don't really get it," he said.

Roy put the heaviest equipment down. "The brain needs two things to work: oxygen, and glucose—the simplest kind of sugar. When a diabetic takes insulin, but doesn't eat enough, or doesn't eat soon enough, or has any number of things happen that can upset the balance, their blood sugar can get really low. It's like an engine that's running on fumes—it kind of sputters. When they have a seizure like he did, it can be deadly, because it makes your brain and body use more fuel—the sugar it's already short on—and it can spiral downwards fast enough to kill you. So it's a good thing you called someone."

The manager shook his head. "The wrong someone, though. I feel terrible—I really thought he was insane, or on drugs."

"It's hard to tell," Roy said. "But the deputy recognized he needed medical help. They're working on ways for the people who answer emergency calls to try to figure out more about what's going on, so they know who to send."

"That would sure be good—I just asked for the cops because, well, he was acting really weird. I didn't even stop to think he might be sick."

"It's all right," Roy said. "He's going to be fine, and you all did fine."

"And you guys were amazing," the manager said. "Here, let me help you carry some things back out to your fire truck, or whatever. I mean, it seemed like you already knew what was happening as soon as you looked at him." They walked out to the squad, with the manager carrying the IV box and the biophone. "And this phone thing—you were able to talk to the hospital without any wires, or anything!"

Roy opened the compartments on the squad and started loading the equipment back in.

"Thanks for your help," the manager said.

"Any time," Roy said, as he slammed the compartments shut. He was about to get into the squad, but noticed that the manager was still standing there, looking like he wanted to say something else.

"Can I help you with something else?" Roy asked.

"Uh, I guess I have a question. Do you know where I could get a class on basic first aid? You know, so in case something else ever happens at the store, I might have some clue what to do while waiting for you pros, you know?"

Roy smiled, and took out his notebook. He wrote something down and handed it to the man. "That's a great idea. You can call this number at Rampart. They'll hook you up with community first aid and CPR courses. And you can call Station 51 at the second number any time, if you want training for your staff on how to use fire extinguishers properly, and for fire safety information."

The man nodded. "Thanks a lot. I'll do that. I'll do all of that. And thanks again for your help today."

"Our pleasure," Roy said. "Take care."

"You too."

Roy drove to Rampart, where Johnny was already chatting up one of the new student nurses.

"And we guessed it, even before we got to the store, that it'd be a behavior incident of some kind. Of course, once we knew he was diabetic, we had things under control in no time flat. Like magic!" He snapped his fingers, while the nurse looked like she'd rather be someplace else.

"You ready to roll, Junior?"

"Huh?"

The student nurse looked at Roy with relief. "I guess you have to go, Johnny. It was nice talking to you." She sped off to a treatment room that Roy was pretty sure was empty, looking official as she carried a tray into the room.

"Squad 51, available," Roy said into the HT. "C'mon, let's get back to the station. You can tell Chet and Marco about your glucagon treatment." Roy snapped his fingers. "Magic!"

**TBC**


	6. At First Glance

A/N: Shortest chapter in Kelmin history..

.

**Chapter 6: At First Glance**

"You know, Roy, I have a feeling that this kind of thing is gonna happen more, and more, and more."

"What kind of thing did you have in mind specifically?"

"Hello? That run we just finished? I mean, there was no reason—no reason at _all_—why that lady needed an ambulance to the hospital. Sure, she needed to get there eventually, since those stitches were definitely infected, but in an ambulance?" Johnny shook his head. "I mean, it goes back to what I've been saying for a long time, about how this stuff takes us away from the real emergencies. People have no common sense. None at all. I mean, why do you think she called an ambulance, Roy?"

Roy kept his eyes on the road. "You wanna know what I think?"

"Well, I did just ask, so yeah, Roy, I do."

"I think she doesn't drive, and her insurance will pay for an ambulance, but not a cab."

Johnny pondered that hypothesis for a moment.

"Oh," he said.

"So it's not necessarily about common sense," Roy said. "At least not in this case. She's elderly, sick, isolated, can't drive, and doesn't have the money for a cab. But her insurance will pay for the ambulance, so that's what she does."

"Oh," Johnny said again. "I guess I never thought of it that way."

"Don't get me wrong," Roy said. "Even though the system is flawed in ways that make people do things like that because they don't feel like they have a choice, there are still plenty of people who work the system to their own advantage. Take for instance the—"

_BEEP BEEP BEEP! "Squad 51, respond to 3374 Griffin Street, for a child in seizures. 3-3-7-4 Griffin Street, cross street Love. Time out 1457."_

Roy and Johnny put on their helmets, Johnny's chin strap dangling as always. Roy flipped the lights and siren on, and they made a quick U-turn to head towards their call location. Three minutes later, they pulled in front of the house, leaving the driveway open for the ambulance. They grabbed their first-in equipment, and headed to the front door, which was immediately opened by a young woman.

"Please hurry! I don't know what happened—she just started jerking and twitching, and I was so scared!"

The woman led them to the living room, where a girl who appeared to be about two and a half was lying listlessly on the carpeted floor.

Johnny and Roy froze as they got their first glimpse of the child's face. Her unfocused eyes had deep, dark circles around them, making her eyes look like those of a raccoon.

"I'll go get the trauma box and a c-collar," Johnny said, turning on his heel and fleeing the room. He exited the home, and opened the compartment on the squad where they kept the items he unexpectedly needed. He leaned against the side of the squad to compose himself for a moment before returning to the home. He hadn't gotten a good look at any other injuries the child might have, but the raccoon eyes were a classic sign of a skull fracture, which could certainly account for the seizure activity. And the mother hadn't said a thing about the bruising. Not a word.

Johnny sighed and spun around, carrying his load of equipment with him. Their job was to take care of their patient; the cops and Child Protective services would undoubtedly do their best to take care of the rest of the problem. He entered the house again, hating what he knew he would see when he walked in the door.

Johnny froze as he re-entered the living room, and his jaw dropped.

The mother was holding the child, and Roy was smiling. The biophone was set up, and Roy had clearly already been in touch with Rampart.

"Ten-four, fifty-one. Transport when ready, and try to get that temperature down on your way."

_Huh_?

Johnny set his boxes of supplies down on the floor and approached slowly.

"Magic marker," Roy said. "She got hold of a purple marker, and colored circles around her eyes. And her belly button. And drew lines down each of her toes. Very artistic child."

Johnny stood there, jaw hanging open.

"Her temperature had just risen from 102 to 104," Roy continued. "So Dr. Early is fairly confident that it was a febrile seizure, but wants us to bring her in anyhow."

Johnny looked at the child again. At second glance, and from close up, it was completely obvious that the marks had nothing to do with trauma—except for possibly the shock of a lifetime when the mother discovered her toddler with the marker.

Flashing lights shone through the filmy living room curtains.

"There's the Mayfair rig," Roy said. "Why don't you go let them in, since you're not doing anything else right now."

Johnny nodded, and turned to head to the front door.

"He doesn't talk much, does he?" the woman asked.

"Ma'am, you have no idea," Roy said.

**TBC**

A/N 1: So many things are different now. We always wear our seatbelts on a response, but never our helmets (they are so heavy that sudden deceleration while wearing a modern helmet would really damage your neck). We often don't respond with lights and sirens; they always did. But people still call an ambulance to get a free ride to the hospital—and the system is broken in new and different ways. But one thing is still the same: what you see on your first glance might not be the right picture.

A/N 2: Inspired by real life. When I was three, I apparently had a great time with a marker, and then proceeded to pass out in a hypoglycemic episode. My mother was mortified to carry me into the ER in the hospital where my father worked, looking like someone had just pounded the living daylights out of me.


	7. Unexpected

**WARNING: Best avoided by younger or more sensitive readers, as the "T" rating is meant to indicate. I really mean it for this chapter.**

A/N: The reader will note that some incidents in this series are not being dispatched as "Unknown Type Rescue." But what you get from dispatch is not always the complete story, or the correct story. All the dispatch information does is tell you where to go, and give you some idea of what to bring in the door with you. Sometimes, you have to go back to your rig, because things weren't what you anticipated.

A/N 2: The terminology I'm using in this chapter is what people would have used in the 1970s. It is not intended as anything other than that. And now, on to our irregularly scheduled story.

.

**Chapter 7: Unexpected**

_BWAM, BWOOMP BWEEEP!_

The lights came on in the dorms automatically when the tones dropped, and all six men stepped into their boots and pants, just as automatically. When they heard the dispatcher announcing the call, four men stepped out of their boots and fell back into their bunks, still on autopilot.

"_Squad 51, child with severe abdominal pain. 2774 Trader's Lane. 2-7-7-4 Trader's Lane, cross street Clarksburg. Time out: 0055._"

Roy saved his groan until he and Johnny had cleared the dorms, turning the lights back off on their way out. He let out a mighty groan and yawn as soon as they hit the apparatus bay.

"Tell me about it," Johnny replied with a rival yawn. "Damn. Those lucky bastards back there probably won't even remember that there was a call at one a.m."

"We probably won't, either," Roy said. "Abdominal pain in a child, in the middle of the night? Any guesses?"

"Now Roy, aren't you the one who's always telling me not to count my chickens before they hatch? I'm not gonna bite this time. Especially after all the crap you gave me last shift for freakin' out about the kid with the purple circles around her eyes. No sirree Bob, I'm keeping my eyes and my mind wide, wide open. Nothin's gettin' past John Gage anymore. Observation is my middle name."

"Okay, Junior. But I'll bet you five bucks that the only thing that's hatching here is a hot appendix, or good old gastroenteritis." Roy said.

"You're on," Johnny said.

"I thought you weren't going to bite."

"Take a right at the light. No, I'm not gonna bite on the _assumption_, Roy. But I'll bite on the _bet_. And I'll bite on all the juicy burgers I'm gonna get with the five bucks you'll owe me when this turns out to be—okay, then the next left—turns out to be something you didn't expect."

They drove on in the darkness for a few more blocks.

"All right, this should be the cross street. Take a right, then our block should be the first left."

It was. Roy pulled the squad up in front of the house, and grabbed the equipment they guessed they'd need for a call that sounded medical in nature. As they approached the front door, it flew open, and a wild-eyed woman beckoned them inside. They could hear screaming and crying coming from upstairs.

"Hurry, hurry! It's my daughter—I just don't know what's wrong with her! She wasn't feeling well during the day, so she stayed home from school, but she started having really bad stomach cramps a few hours ago, and they just seemed to get worse and worse, and now she's just screaming, and I know she needs to go to the hospital, but she can't get up now, and she's far to big for me to manage on my own, and—just hurry!"

The three of them flew up the stairs to the child's bedroom. It was pink and frilly, and littered with stuffed animals of various sizes and breeds. The room looked like it belonged to a six-year-old, but the bed was occupied by a teenaged girl, who appeared heavy, if not outright obese. She was clutching a large pink rabbit to her abdomen. Johnny and Roy exchanged a Look.

"What's her name, ma'am, and how old is she?" Johnny asked, as Roy approached their distraught patient.

"Miranda Hogan—she just turned fourteen. But—you have to understand, she's more like a small child in some ways. Please, can you help her?" The mother twisted her hands, and watched as Roy started to place an oxygen mask over the girl's face.

"No, no no! No touching me!" the girl shouted, and went right back to her keening cries of pain. Roy took a step backwards, and looked at the mother.

The mother went to the head of the bed and sat down. "Honey, they're helpers from the fire department. They're going to take care of you while we get you to the hospital in an ambulance, all right? I'll be right here. Please, you need to let them help you." She turned to Roy. "Please, please …"

"We'll do everything we can, ma'am. We have to get an idea of what's going on, first. I'm going to call the hospital on this phone while my partner Roy checks her over," Johnny said, as he set up the biophone.

Roy spoke gently to the girl as he got her vital signs, wrote them on a slip of paper, and handed them to Johnny a minute later. Johnny could hear him talking about his own family, his daughter.

Mrs. Hogan continued to spout information at Johnny as he tried to contact Rampart.

"She hasn't been herself for a couple of months, and she's gained a lot of weight. She's always been heavy, but not like this. She's been holding her belly-bunny—uh, that pink rabbit—for the last couple of days. That's what helps her feel better when she has a tummy ache. She … she goes to a special school. They let her bring it."

Johnny nodded. "All right. I understand."

The girl seemed to calm down a bit, but was breathing hard and sweating profusely.

"Can I put this mask on your face?" Roy asked quietly. "It's oxygen, which should help you breathe easier, and help you feel a little better."

Miranda stared Roy in the face for a moment, and flicked her eyes back up to her mother's. Her mother nodded. "Please, baby, let him put it on."

Miranda shook her head. "No."

"Ma'am, maybe she'd let you put the oxygen mask on her?" Roy said.

The mother nodded, and was able to put the mask on Miranda's face. Within a few seconds, she seemed to be breathing more slowly and easily.

Johnny finished setting up the biophone, and had made initial contact with Dixie at Rampart.

"_What are the vitals, 51?_"

"Respirations are 30 and shallow, pulse is 140, and BP is 160/100."

"_51, say again on the BP_?"

"160/100, Rampart. We'll take it again now to confirm that reading."

Roy nodded, and pumped the cuff up again, letting the air hiss out slowly. "162/98."

"Repeat BP is 162/98."

"_10-4, 51; Dr. Early is on his way_."

Roy looked Miranda in the eye. "Are you feeling any better?"

"My tummy hurted, and then it don't hurt. And then it hurted again. And then it don't hurt, and—" she cut herself off as she doubled over and wailed.

"Miranda, I need to feel your belly," Roy said. "I promise I'll be gentle, and your mom is right here."

He didn't wait for a response. He worked his hands around her arms, which were clutching at her midsection, and palpated gently.

Nobody in the world but Johnny, or possibly Joanne, would have noticed the subtle change that came over Roy's face just then.

"Roy?" Johnny asked. But he knew.

"I think the ambulance should be just about here," Roy said. "Mrs. Hogan, could you flag them down for us?"

"Oh, of course! Honey, oh, sweetheart—I'll be right back, and then we'll get you straight to the hospital," Mrs. Hogan said, as she flew out of the room.

"Roy, did you feel what I thought you felt?"

Roy nodded, his face expressionless. "Full term, or close to it."

Johnny clenched his jaw, but didn't say a thing.

"Miranda, we need to ask you some questions, okay?" Roy said gently, as the pain seemed to subside for a moment. "They're very important, to help us take care of you."

Miranda gave a tiny nod.

"Your period," Roy said. "When was the last time you had your period?"

"What?" Miranda said.

"Your monthly bleeding."

"I don't like that!" she wailed. "It hurtin' agai—aaaah!"

Roy let Miranda squeeze his hand hard, until she let go, over a minute later.

Roy looked at Johnny. "Eighty seconds long, with ninety seconds between." Johnny nodded.

Roy returned his attention to Miranda. "Miranda," he said slowly, "do you think you could be pregnant?"

She looked at them blankly.

"Having a baby?" Johnny said.

Miranda looked at Johnny quizzically. "No. I don't know how. I'm a kid." She clutched her rabbit to her belly tightly, and looked away.

Roy decided to try one more strategy to try to confirm their suspicions. "Honey, your mom said you've been sad. Did anything happen that was strange?"

Miranda put her rabbit over her face, and covered her ears with the rabbit's floppy pink ears.

"Miranda, it's very important."

"Him say no telling. Him say mommy cry and hit me." Miranda was barely audible through the plush and the stuffing.

Johnny and Roy looked at each other, each feeling as sick as the other one looked.

Johnny turned away. "All right. I'm gonna go talk to the mom, and get her back up here. And, uh, get some more equipment. I'll talk to Rampart once the mom is up here with you."

"Mommy! I want my mommy!" Miranda whimpered.

"I'm going to get her right now, Miranda. I'll be back with her in just a minute," Johnny said. _And I'm not looking forward to what I have to say to her between now and then_.

Just as Johnny left the room, they could see the flashing lights of the Mayfair rig that was pulling into the driveway. Johnny could hear Roy talking quietly to Miranda as he raced down the stairs and met the attendants at the door, which Mrs. Hogan had once again opened. Miranda started wailing again as he left the room, leaving the door open behind him.

"Guys, we need you to hold off for a minute until we have some clarity here," Johnny said. "You can wait in your rig."

The attendants looked at each other and shrugged, and pulled their gurney back out the door. Johnny sighed. The two attendants weren't the ones he wanted in a situation like this, but he didn't get to pick and choose.

"Clarity?" Mrs. Hogan said. "What do you mean?"

"Come sit down," Johnny said, and led Mrs. Hogan to a chair in her own living room. "Ma'am, I'm John Gage, and my partner Roy DeSoto is upstairs with Miranda. I need to talk to you for a minute before we go back up."

"What's wrong?" Mrs. Hogan's voice was shaking.

"Mrs. Hogan, there's every indication that your daughter is in labor." Johnny surprised himself by keeping his voice absolutely calm and level. On the inside, he was anything but.

Mrs. Hogan stared at him, her mouth open. Johnny watched as the color drained from her face as if she'd suddenly lost half her blood, and she pitched forwards in the chair. He was ready, so he caught her, and held her so her head was between her knees.

"Mrs. Hogan?"

She didn't respond. After fifteen seconds or so, she groaned and pushed herself upright.

"Having a _baby_?"

Johnny nodded.

"Oh god, oh god! How did I not notice this? How did—oh my god!" Mrs. Hogan buried her face in her hands. "Oh my god," she repeated.

"It's not going to happen any second now, but her blood pressure is quite high, so we do need to get her to the hospital, all right? And the doctors are going to ask us to check her, and you need to be there for that."

"Oh my god," Mrs. Hogan repeated, burying her head in her hands again.

"Mrs. Hogan, we really need to go upstairs, all right? I understand this is difficult—" a total lie, Johnny understood as he said it, but it was the thing to say— "but Miranda needs you." He extended a hand to her, and reconsidered his guilt about lying. It wasn't really a lie—he did understand _that_ it was difficult, so it wasn't a total lie. But of course he didn't understand _how_ it must feel. That, as neither a parent nor a female, he had no clue about.

Mrs. Hogan took Johnny's extended hand, and let him help her up from the chair. She trudged up the stairs, but her heavy footsteps sped to a dash as Miranda started wailing again.

Johnny followed, heart and feet leaden. Mrs. Hogan entered the room, and Johnny followed. He picked up the biophone, and took it a few steps away from the bed.

"Rampart, this is Squad 51. We have some more information on our patient."

"_Go ahead, 51,_" said Dr. Early's voice.

"Rampart, our patient is fourteen and mentally retarded per the mother's information. Roy palpated what appeared to be a nearly full-term gravid uterus in contraction. Patient is unable to confirm date of last menstrual period. The mother is present and may be able to provide more information shortly. Patient is having what appear to be contractions, lasting approximately eighty seconds, with ninety seconds between the end of one and the start of the next. The mother had a syncopal episode when we told her what we thought was going on, but she recovered within thirty seconds and appears stable at this time."

Dr. Early paused longer than was typical for him. "_Ten four, 51. Are you able to determine the extent of dilation_?"

"Uh, Rampart, the mother is now present, and we'll attempt to determine momentarily."

"_All right, 51. Don't disturb your patient unduly. As an alternative, find out whether the baby is crowning, or if any parts are presenting._"

"Copy, Rampart. Will attempt to determine extent of dilation, and if that's not possible, whether the head is crowning or if any other parts are presenting."

Johnny put the handset down.

"Roy?"

"I heard. Mrs. Hogan, do you know when Miranda's last normal menstrual period was?"

Mrs. Hogan shook her head. "I was just thinking about that. She's only had one, ever. That was about ten months ago. The doctor said she'd probably never be regular."

Roy nodded. "Okay. That's helpful information. Also, the doctor wants us to see if her cervix is dilated. But we also don't want to upset her too much. It's very unusual for us to ask this, but would you prefer to check?"

Mrs. Hogan blanched. "I don't even know what that means. When Miranda was born, they knew in advance I had to have a C-section, so I was never in labor. But, uh, she'll probably have a fit if you touch her."

"Okay—all we need to know, then, is if you can feel a baby's head, or any other body parts. Do you think you can help us with that?"

Mrs. Hogan's hands shook. "I guess I'll have to. Maybe if I do it during a contraction, she might not even notice."

"It's up to you whether or not you want to explain what you're going to do. You know her best."

"I'll just do it during a contraction. She won't understand anyhow."

"Okay," Roy said.

"Mommy? It hurtin' again!"

"I know, baby, I know."

Mrs. Hogan did what she needed to do. Miranda had her bunny clutched to her face, and didn't seem to notice what was happening.

"I don't feel anything," Mrs. Hogan said.

"Okay. That means we don't have to rush to the hospital. But we do have to get there soon," Roy said.

"Of course." Mrs. Hogan suddenly sat on the floor, head in her hands. "Who would … I can't …"

Johnny picked up the biophone again.

"Rampart, this is Squad 51."

"_Go ahead, 51._"

"The mother states that the last normal period was approximately ten months ago, and that the child's doctor had said to expect irregularity. We're not able to determine the extent of dilation at this time. The mother checked for crowning or any presenting parts, and didn't find any. New vitals are …" Johnny took the slip of paper Roy was extending to him. "Respirations 26, pulse 132, BP 162/94."

"_Ten-four, 51. Keep the patient on O2. Start an IV, normal saline, TKO. Transport as soon as possible._"

Johnny got Roy's attention as he repeated the instructions. "Copy, Rampart. O2, IV normal saline TKO, and transport. Rampart, the patient is in significant emotional distress. Request permission to transport non-code-R, with the mother in the patient compartment."

Early paused. "_Go ahead, 51. That's probably advisable in this case._"

Johnny started setting up an IV kit.

"Uh, Johnny, I think you oughta do this. You're better at it, and I need to not be the bad guy, since I'm riding in with her."

The knot in Johnny's stomach got a little tighter, but he was going to suggest the same thing anyhow. "Yeah, okay."

"Mrs. Hogan, can we talk in the hallway for a second?" Roy said.

"All right," Mrs. Hogan said. She stood up heavily, and followed Roy into the hallway. Roy closed the door behind them.

As soon as the door was closed, Mrs. Hogan burst into tears.

"Who could _do_ this to her? _Who_?"

"Some kind of animal," Roy said quietly. He didn't usually express himself that way on the scene with families, but the situation dictated it. And he couldn't help it. "But Mrs. Hogan, the important thing now is to keep Miranda as calm as we can given the circumstances. And one of the most important things for her will be to see that you're calm."

"How can I be calm?" she hissed, barely audible over Miranda's screams. "How can I _possibly_ be _calm_? Someone raped my daughter, and she didn't even know what was happening, and I didn't even _notice_ that my own daughter was _pregnant_! How the hell can I _possibly_ be calm?"

"I couldn't be," Roy admitted. "I have a six-year-old daughter. I couldn't be calm. But I could try to pretend, for her sake. Can you do that?"

"I guess I have to." She took a deep, shaky breath, and another. "I'll scream and cry later."

"Thank you. You're an amazing mother," Roy said.

"I don't feel like it, right now. I feel like the most neglectful person on the face of the planet."

"You're not. It's not your fault."

"Maybe I'll believe you someday."

"I hope so."

He put his hand on the doorknob. "On her last contraction, my partner put in an IV. She probably didn't feel it through the pain of the contraction, but she'll need you to explain it to her. You can tell her it's like a shot that stays there, and she needs to try not to touch it."

"I think I should also wrap her arm up in a blanket, so she can't see it," Mrs. Hogan said.

"All right," Roy said. "That won't hurt anything." He paused for a second or two. "Is there anyone you'd like us to call? For you?"

Mrs. Hogan shook her head. "I know what you're trying to say, without saying it. Her father's gone. He took off when she was four, and still couldn't walk or talk. He's never seen her since then. I don't want him here."

"Do you have a friend you'd like us to call?"

"I can't even think about myself right now."

"Fair enough," Roy said.

"When we get to the hospital …" Mrs. Hogan stopped.

"There will be an obstetrician who will know the best thing to do."

Mrs. Hogan nodded. "Let's go."

Roy opened the door, and they went back in.

"Johnny, let's get the gurney up here."

"I'm on it," Johnny said, as he headed downstairs again.

"Mommy?" Miranda whimpered.

"We're going to the hospital, honey," Mrs. Hogan said.

Roy explained further. "We're going to carry you down the stairs on a bed with wheels. Then we're going to drive in an ambulance."

Miranda shook her head. "Too loud!" She imitated the wailing of a siren.

"We won't let the ambulance make that noise."

Another contraction hit her, hard. She was no longer able to cry normally or scream during the contractions, but started sobbing as soon as she could breathe again. Johnny and the two white-clad Mayfair attendants entered the room, and Miranda shrieked.

"No mans! No mans!"

Johnny motioned the attendants back out into the hallway. "Guys, me and Roy are gonna bring her down, all right? I know it's not protocol, but that's how it's gonna have to be this time."

"Suit yourself, Gage," one of the attendants said. "Just don't sue us if you break your back."

"Get in the rig," Johnny snapped. "And we're going in non-code-R, nice and easy. Got it?"

"Sheesh. Yeah, got it."

Johnny ignored the mutterings of "What's up his ass?" and "Fuck if I know," and returned to the pink room.

"Miranda, Johnny and your mom and I are gonna help you get on this funny bed, okay?" Roy said, as Johnny adjusted the gurney to the same height as the mattress on the bed.

"Mrs. Hogan," Johnny said, "you can just hold her hand; we'll do the lifting."

Roy untucked the fitted sheet from around the head of the bed while Johnny took care of the bottom. They left all of Miranda's covers on her the way she had them, and on a count of three, used the sheet to slide her smoothly onto the gurney, and adjusted into a semi-upright position.

Johnny buckled Miranda's lower body onto the gurney, while Roy and Mrs. Hogan took care of her upper body.

"Let's do the stairs between contractions," Johnny suggested. "They're a straight shot, no landing, so it shouldn't be too hard."

"Good plan. Mrs. Hogan, why don't you go ahead of us, and stand at the bottom where she can see that we're taking her towards you."

"All right," Mrs. Hogan said. She held Miranda's hand through the next horrible contraction, and then spoke to her daughter again. "Honey, we're going down the stairs. John and Roy are going to carry your bed, just like you're a princess. And I'll be right there at the bottom waiting for you. And then I'll ride with you in the ambulance." She kissed Miranda's sweaty forehead, and led the way out of the room.

Johnny and Roy maneuvered the gurney out the door, and waited at the top of the stairs until another contraction came and went. As soon as it was over, they gently carried the gurney down the stairs, and wheeled Miranda into the waiting ambulance.

"See you at Rampart," Johnny said.

"Yeah."

Johnny closed the doors of the patient compartment, and rather than banging on them, he went around to the front of the ambulance and spoke to the driver. He pretended he hadn't heard the man's griping a few minutes ago, and spoke as neutrally as he could.

"They're ready to go. Mom's in the patient compartment, on doctor's orders, and the kid's real scared. So make it a real easy, quiet ride, all right?"

"Sure thing, Gage."

Johnny watched as the ambulance pulled away. He stepped into the squad, and reached for the radio.

"L.A., Squad 51."

"_Squad 51._"

"Request law enforcement to meet us at Rampart. We need to give a statement about this run. Our ETA to Rampart is approximately ten minutes."

"_Copy. Law enforcement en route to Rampart. ETA fifteen minutes._"

"Received."

Johnny tried not to think about anything at all on his way to Rampart. He failed miserably. Ten minutes later, he and Roy sat in the deserted staff lounge, pretending to drink coffee, and not saying a damned thing. Five minutes after that, Vince Howard entered the lounge.

"Fellas," he said, noting their demeanor. "Bad one?"

"Like you wouldn't believe, Vince," Johnny said. "We just transported a fourteen-year-old mentally retarded girl. Who was in labor."

Vince whistled. "Yep. All right. You know the drill. Write out your statements, and don't talk about it with each other after."

Roy looked up at Vince. "Vince, I'm gonna have to talk about this with someone. I'm not gonna be able to let this one go."

"Same here," Johnny said, barely audibly.

Vince nodded slowly. "All right. Talk to your department's chaplain or counselor. But that's all."

"Yeah. We know," Johnny said.

Vince took two triplicate forms out of his clipboard case, and handed one to each man. Roy and Johnny each spent ten minutes writing their statements out. They checked over their work, and signed and handed the paperwork to Vince at almost the same time.

"Thanks. Someone from the Sheriff's office will be in touch. You may also hear from Child Protective Services." Vince looked around. "Are the parents around?"

"The mom's with the girl. Dad's not in the picture," Roy said. "I think you should ask Dixie to let you know when the mom is free. It could be a while."

"All right." He shook his head. "There's some bastard out there who really has it coming to him."

"Yeah," said Roy. "I just hope he gets what he deserves."

Johnny didn't say anything for a few seconds. "I'm not sure I can imagine anything bad enough," he said.

The Handi-talkie came to life, beeping three times and jolting them both back into the here and now.

"_Squad 51, what's your status?_"

Roy looked at Johnny.

Johnny shrugged. "I could use a distraction right about now," he said.

"Squad 51, available."

~!~!~!~

_Four weeks later_

"John? Roy? Can I see you in my office for a minute?" Cap said, holding an envelope in his hand.

"Sure, Cap," Johnny said.

Roy and Johnny entered the office, and looked at each other quickly as Captain Stanley closed the door.

"What's going on?" Roy asked.

"That run you had a couple weeks ago, that really shook you guys up, but that you couldn't talk about, because there was going to be an investigation?" Cap handed Johnny the letter. "I think this is probably about that run."

Cap quietly stepped out of the office, to let Roy and Johnny read the letter in private, even though he had already read it, since it was in his box with a note from B shift saying that it wasn't for them.

The name above the return address was familiar. Mrs. Grace L. Hogan.

Roy read over Johnny's shoulder, not able to wait his turn.

_Dear Station 51 Paramedics,_

_I'm very sorry I can't remember your names. I don't think they ever sank in completely. But I wanted to write you, first of all to thank you, and second of all to let you know the rest of Miranda's story._

_Miranda gave birth to a healthy-appearing baby girl about four hours after you brought us to the hospital. She didn't understand what was happening to her at all. They gave her something they said they don't use much anymore, that helped with the pain but they said would also make her not remember as much. It was wretched, but Miranda doesn't remember anything about what happened at the hospital. It's just as well, because she really didn't understand at all. She is doing well, but is staying home for the rest of the school year. The school district is providing her with an in-home tutor for the remainder of the year, and possibly longer. _

_After some consideration, I decided to raise the baby. I named her Tina, which will be easy for her to pronounce if she has speech problems like Miranda does, but not also not babyish. She will be the second child I was never able to have. If she is "normal," I'll feel blessed. If not, I'll love her just as much as I love Miranda. _

_Peter Albertson, an aide at Miranda's school, is in custody in lieu of $100,000 bail. I don't need to explain why, I don't think._

_Thank you for your incredibly compassionate care for Miranda, and for me. Miranda doesn't know how to appreciate it, but I do._

_Sincerely,_

_Grace Hogan_

Neither Johnny nor Roy could say anything at first. Cap didn't ask them anything

"I guess that's a happy ending," Roy said.

"About as happy as it could be. What a lady," Johnny said.

"Yeah."

**TBC**

A/N: Depending on the study you look at, between 25-85% of people with developmental disabilities experience sexual abuse at some time during their lifetimes.


	8. Charlie

.

**Chapter 8: Charlie**

.

It was an unusual evening at Station 51. Everyone on the A Shift was done with their chores. Chet and Johnny had cleaned up after Mike cooked dinner. Roy had completed a weekly checklist on the squad. Marco had oiled and fueled all the saws from the engine.

In a rare moment, the television wasn't on. None of the local sports teams had a game, and nobody was interested in the Prime Time viewing for that evening. Chet was studying for the next round of the Engineer's test. Roy was writing a letter. Cap was in the office, possibly doing paperwork but possibly retreating from the rest of the men. Marco was playing solitaire, Mike was reading a novel, and Johnny's nose was buried in a magazine. The station was completely, utterly qu—

_BWAAAMP, BWOOMP BWEEEEP!_

"_Station 51, unknown type incident. Report of a loud noise and a smoke odor; occupant believed to be home but not answering door. 1578 Pearl Street, Apartment A as in Adam. 1-5-7-8 Pearl Street, Apartment A as in Adam, cross street Santa Fe. Time out: 2006._"

Reading and writing materials, playing cards, and paperwork were set aside hastily as the men piled into the vehicles to respond to the incident. It was likely to just be burnt food, at this hour. And sometimes people left their apartments to escape the odor of their own disasters. But there was always the possibility of something more sinister.

Mike pulled the engine past the house, up to the hydrant at the next address. Cap did a quick size-up, noticing the single door, the two doorbells, and the two mailboxes, and reported in to dispatch.

"L.A., Engine 51 on scene at a two-story up-down duplex, with nothing immediately showing." Cap put the radio down. "Chet, pull an inch-and-a-half to the front door. Marco, do a quick walkaround. John, Roy, go on in."

Cap hardly had to give these instructions, since they were the standard duties of each of the men at a scene like this. Roy and Johnny went to the front door with the tools they'd need for a forcible entry.

A woman flew out from the front door.

"Thank goodness you're here! There was a commotion of some kind downstairs in Linda's apartment, and then a terrible smell. I think the water is running, but I'm not sure. I know she's still home, because her car is here, but she won't answer!"

"All right, ma'am; we'll go in and have a look," Cap said, walking the woman over to the squad. "Would you happen to have a spare key?"

"No, I'm afraid not, and I don't think she keeps one hidden outside, either." The woman began to calm down, as she saw the men working efficiently to find out what the problem was.

Roy went in through the open shared front door. Inside, there was a door labeled 'A' and staircase up to what was presumably another apartment. Roy pounded on the 'A' door as Johnny peered into a window at the front of the house.

"Fire department!" He pounded again—no namby-pamby knocking; an unambiguous, impossible-to-ignore pound with a raised fist. "Fire department! Anyone home?"

"Roy? Cap? I see movement inside; there's definitely someone in there," Johnny called. "I don't see any flames, but it sure smells awful, even from outside. Like burnt hair. I think we oughta get in there."

Roy tried the door on the off chance it was unlocked. It wasn't, so he noted the fairly flimsy-looking construction of the front door, jammed his halligan between the door and the frame, and pried until the frame buckled enough that the deadbolt cleared it. He opened the door, and he and Johnny entered the house. Chet stood by with his attack line.

"Definitely burnt hair. Let's look around," Johnny said.

Roy and Johnny entered the apartment, looking for either flames or an injured person. They didn't need to look far—a woman was kneeling in the bathroom, running the tub faucet over blistered hands.

"I'll get the equipment," Johnny said, as he headed back outside. "No fire," he said to Chet on his way out.

"No fire, Cap, but a woman's injured in there," Johnny said, as he began opening compartments.

Inside, Roy was talking with his patient. "Ma'am, I'm Roy DeSoto, firefighter/paramedic with the County Fire Department. What happened here?"

The woman finally allowed herself to break down. "My cat," she sobbed. "You have to find my cat!"

"All right, ma'am, we'll find your cat. But it looks like you have some pretty bad burns and deep scratches, here. What's your name?"

"Linda. Can you find Charlie before you look at my hands, please?"

"Well, there are six of us here, so I think we can take care of you both at once. As soon as my partner comes back, we'll get to looking for Charlie. How did this happen?"

"He was burning!" the woman cried. "Charlie's fur was on fire—he must have knocked a candle down—and he was trying to run away from the flames, so I grabbed him and just … rubbed the fire out with my hands. I didn't know what else to do. I was going to put him under the faucet, but he got away, and now I don't know where he is, or if he's hurt!"

"All right—we'll find Charlie as soon as we can. But your hands are burned—let's turn the water off, and have a look," Roy said calmly, as he turned the water off.

Roy's easy, gentle manner and his assurances that Charlie would be taken care of seemed to be helping the woman to calm down. Johnny clattered in with the biophone, burn kit, and drug box.

"Johnny, this is Linda. Her cat had a run-in with a candle, and she burned her hands putting the flames in his fur out. The cat is burned and likely hiding," Roy said, as he carefully checked Linda's hands. "She's very concerned about him. Could you see if the other guys could find him, while you and I are helping Linda out?"

"Sure thing. Ma'am, does your cat have any favorite hiding places?"

"In my closet, and under or behind my bed. I'm sure you'll find him in one of those places. Oh—and Charlie's frightened of mustaches, I'm afraid." Her tight voice and her tense body were the only things that betrayed what must have been significant pain from second-degree burns over the palms of both hands.

"All right." Johnny grinned surreptitiously as he thought about Mike trying to coax an angry cat out from its hiding place. Poor guy probably wouldn't have a _clue_ what to do. He trotted outside.

"Cap, the occupant has badly burned hands, and is definitely looking at a trip to Rampart, so we'll need an ambulance. And, uh, her cat, uh … caught on fire, and he's hiding, probably in the bedroom, and we gotta find him. He's probably burned."

"Her cat _what_?"

"Caught on fire. That's all I know, Cap. Oh—except that he's afraid of mustaches. And I'm afraid Roy and I are going to be tied up with our patient, so … um." Johnny cleared his throat. "I guess I'll be going back in, now."

The corners of Cap's mouth twitched. It wasn't funny—it _really_ wasn't funny. He _knew_ it wasn't funny—a human was injured trying to save the pet she loved, and the animal, in all likelihood, was injured as well.

But the image of his dignified, refined engineer on his hands and knees, with a hissing, spitting, scorched cat in front of him—_that_ was funny.

"Hey, Stoker! Come on over here," Cap shouted.

Mike, of course, had been paying attention to what was going on, and knew there was no fire to contend with. He often felt fairly useless at scenes like this, so he was glad to be given a job.

Cap repeated what Johnny had told him. "So I'm afraid you're it."

"Okay," Mike said, not batting an eye at Cap's apologetic orders. "What about a vet?"

Cap frowned. "Good point—sounds like the owner is going to have to go in to the hospital. I'll have dispatch send us Animal Control, along with an ambulance. Those guys'll know what to do."

"Good," said Mike.

Cap opened the door of the squad and reached in for the mobile radio as Mike got ready for his task.

Mike opened a compartment on the squad, and found a heavy canvas bag. He pulled his thick fire gloves on as he walked towards the house.

Mike's nose wrinkled of its own accord as he entered the apartment. Soot, wood smoke—those had a certain appeal to them. But burnt hair—no, fur, he corrected himself—that just plain _stank_. He went into the bedroom, closing the door behind him to prevent the cat from escaping. It didn't hurt things any that nobody would be able to see him that way, either.

He knelt on the floor next to the bed, and lifted the bedspread enough to get a look under the bed frame. A small black cat crouched under the head of the bed, as far into the corner as it could get.

"Here, kitty kitty kitty," Mike said quietly.

No joy. The animal didn't budge, but rather made a sound that was half growl, half grumble.

He shined his flashlight at the cat to get a better look at what he was dealing with. He immediately realized he'd made one mistake already—the cat wasn't black. Not exactly. He was only _half_ black. The back half. The front of the cat was light orange, with tabby markings. The fur on the back half—at least the side Mike could see—was charred and melted together with heat.

"You poor thing. C'mon, now, I'm not gonna hurt you. We just gotta get you out of here, so the vet can take care of you. Yeah, I know, I said 'vet.' It's for your own good, though. Now we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. What's it gonna be, buddy?"

The cat looked at Mike again, and stood up. The fur on the front half of his body stood up, and he showed his teeth, arched his back, and growled.

"Yeah, I thought you'd pick the hard way. All right, tough guy. Here we go."

Mike moved the nightstand aside, and pulled the bed out from the wall. The cat was half cowering, and half puffing himself up to look larger than he actually was, to try to scare Mike away.

It didn't work. Mike cornered the cat between the bed and the wall, and reached out as quick as a flash and grabbed the cat by the scruff of his neck. He held Charlie briefly at arm's length, taking a quick look at his charred fur, and then popped him into the canvas bag. He closed the bag, put the furniture back where it had been before Charlie's capture, and carefully took the bag, which looked like it had come to life, outside.

"Got him," Mike said, unnecessarily. "Need some ventilation, too."

Cap nodded. "Chet, Marco—I doubt the smoke is afraid of mustaches, so you're up."

Chet and Marco nodded, and took the large ventilation fan off the engine to hang in a window of the apartment. They could hear Johnny on the biophone as they entered.

"Copy, Rampart. IV, normal saline, 5 mg MS, and transport." Johnny put the receiver down and started preparing an IV pack for Roy.

"Did somebody find Charlie?" Linda asked.

"Let's get this IV started, and get some pain meds going for you, and then I'll go check on Charlie, all right?" Johnny said, as Roy prepped the IV site. "One of our guys was gonna look for him. Real quiet guy; no mustache. He'll be real nice to Charlie. I promise."

"Okay," Linda said shakily. "Oh. That feels better already."

"Yes ma'am," Roy said. "The doctors thought the morphine might help you. Now, we definitely need you to go to the hospital; burns on the palms of your hands can be quite serious."

"All right," said Linda.

"I'll go see what Mike's up to," Johnny said. He trotted back out to the staging area. Mike was sitting on the curb next to the engine, with a canvas bag squirming around next to him. A green oxygen tank was lying on the ground as well, its tube snaking into the bag.

"Figured a little O2 wouldn't hurt this guy," Mike said.

"How's he look? Can you tell?"

"Well, his fur is really charred, but it's still on him, which I'm guessing is a good sign. I don't really know. I didn't give him much of a chance to put up a fight, but he's definitely got some energy."

"That was a good idea, slipping some O2 tubing in there," Johnny said. He was a little disappointed that Mike didn't seem at all rattled by his experience with the feline. After several years of working with the guy, Johnny had come to the conclusion that Mike was just plain impossible to upset. Or annoy. Or make laugh. Or get any decent reaction of any kind from.

"Figured it couldn't hurt," Mike repeated.

A County Animal Control van pulled up, and a tall African-American fellow stepped out.

"Evening, fellas. Les Taylor, Animal Control. What've you got?" He eyed the bag that was wiggling around and emitting hissing sounds.

"Cat caught on fire, somehow," Mike said. "He's pretty singed, and the owner's on the way to the hospital there, so we thought we'd give you a call. He probably needs to see a vet."

Les nodded. "All right—let me get a more appropriate enclosure." He opened the back of the van, and returned with a large wire cage.

"How about if I just put the whole bag in there," Mike said, "and let him come out on his own terms? I'm pretty sure we're not going to be wanting this bag back, anyhow, from what I'm smelling."

"Hm. Yeah, that happens when animals are scared out of their wits," Les said. He opened the door of the cage, and Mike pulled his thick gloves back on. Mike slid the bag into the cage, and loosened the closure on the top of the bag so Charlie could come out if he wanted to.

Johnny put the O2 cylinder away, and watched as Charlie emerged into the cage.

Les let out a low whistle. "Wow. Yeah, he definitely needs to see a vet. How did this happen? I mean, are we dealing with abuse, here?"

Johnny shook his head. "No way. The owner said Charlie knocked a candle over, and his fur caught. She put the flames out with her bare hands. My partner's taking her in to Rampart now." He gestured with his head towards the ambulance gurney that was being rolled out of the house.

"Will she be able to give me some contact information?" Les asked.

Linda's neighbor spoke up. "I can give you that. I'll give you my information, too, in case Linda's still in the hospital or something."

"Thanks, that's helpful," Les said.

The ambulance gurney halted as they neared the rig.

"Hang on," said Johnny. "I'll be right back."

He ran over to the gurney and spoke to Linda.

"Ma'am, the Animal Control officer is gonna take Charlie to the vet, all right? He's being well taken care of."

"But can I see him, please, before we go?" the woman asked.

Johnny and Roy looked at each other and shrugged.

"Real quick," Roy said. "Johnny, can you bring him over here?"

"Sure." Johnny returned to the area where all the other men of A-shift were now clustered around the cage.

"Move aside, gents—lady wants to see her cat." He picked the cage up carefully, and took it over to the ambulance.

"Charlie!" Linda said. "There's my baby," she crooned to the cat, slurring slightly under the influence of the morphine. She reached out with a heavily bandaged hand, thought twice, and pulled her hand back.

Charlie stopped growling, and his ears perked up. "Brrrp?" he said.

"That's my boy. We're both going to the doctor, but I'll see you soon, I promise," Linda said.

"Trrrrrt." Charlie seemed satisfied with the promise, and sat down in his cage for the first time. Roy and the Mayfair attendants loaded Linda's gurney into the rig, and took off, as Johnny returned the cat to Officer Taylor.

"Aaw, poor little thing," Chet said, peering into the cage.

Charlie backed away, and growled menacingly.

"It's all right," Mike said, sticking his fingers through the wire of the cage. "He's harmless."

"Are you talking to me, or the cat? Chet asked.

"The cat." Mike wiggled his fingers at the cat.

Charlie leaned his head in to the side of the cage and rubbed his head into Mike's fingers. "Brrrt?"

"Really," Mike replied. "Completely harmless. Now you settle down, and the nice man over there will take you to the V-E-T."

"Trrrrrp," Charlie agreed.

"All right, boys," Cap said. "Excitement's over. Time to pack up and get back to the barn."

Everyone was still watching Charlie, though. He plunked himself back down in his cage, as far from Chet as possible, and started licking his charred, matted hindquarters. After just a second, he shook his head, and rapidly opened and closed his mouth, scraping his scratchy tongue over the roof of his mouth repeatedly.

"At the very least," Les said, watching Charlie try to clear the taste of burnt fur from his mouth, "the vet will have to shave off that mess." He picked up the cage, and set it gently in the back of the van.

"I'll be on my way," Les said. "Thanks for calling us on this one."

"Sure thing," said Cap.

"Uh, one thing," Mike said. "Can you let us know how he's doing?"

"Absolutely," Les said. "Station 51, right? I'm guessing y'all are in the book?"

Mike nodded.

"All right. I'll call you in an hour or so, if circumstances permit, after the on-call vet's had a look."

"Thanks," Mike said, as he stuck his fingers into the cage and gave Charlie one last pet.

Chet snickered quietly, and Mike whirled to face him.

"What?" Mike said to Chet, frowning.

"You talked more to Charlie than you did to the rest of us all day," Chet said.

"He's more interesting," Mike replied. "And more polite. Smells better, too."

Chet bristled, and Marco chuckled.

"Pack it up, boys," Cap repeated.

~!~!~!~

An hour later, just before lights-out, the station phone rang.

Marco was closest to the phone.

"L.A. County Fire Department, Station 51, Fireman Lopez speaking. How can I help you?"

"_Good evening, Mr. Lopez. Les Taylor from Animal Control._"

"Oh, hi, Officer Taylor. How's Charlie doing?" Marco asked.

"_He's doing fine. The vet had to shave about half his fur off to see what the damage was, and to keep him from ingesting the burned fur. As it turns out, he has some first degree burns, and a small patch of blistering second degree burns, but he's going to be fine._"

"Great! The guys will be happy to hear that. We'll make sure someone calls Rampart, too, to tell the cat's owner."

"_Already taken care of,_" Les said. "_She said to tell you all that she was very grateful for your help tonight._"

"Well, it was our pleasure," Marco said. "Thanks for calling. Have a good night."

"_You too_."

Marco turned to the rest of the crew, and repeated Taylor's news.

"Well, all right!" Mike said. "That's great!"

Everyone stared at him.

"What?"

**TBC**

A/N: Based on real life, once again. Embarrassingly, this time it was MY life. No flames; just smoldering, melted, charred fur and stink like you wouldn't believe. We made it to the tub faucet, and somehow neither of us got burned at all. One of us got very scared and angry, both of us got very wet, and one of us was really glad nobody called the fire department.


	9. Close to Home: Part 1

**Chapter 9: Close To Home, Part 1**

It was a slow, easy night at Dispatch. Sam Lanier was enjoying the breather; his last few shifts had been complete nightmares, with calls coming in fast and furiously. Everyone always had some explanation for why it was busy at seemingly random intervals: phase of the moon (which he doubted), the weather (which he thoroughly believed, especially when it was hot), the timing of the games of the various L.A. sports teams (possible, but further observation was needed). But Sam wasn't going to question the dry spell. If a county with millions of people in it suddenly wanted to go sane for a night, it was fine by him. He'd put his feet up (not really; there wasn't anywhere to put them) and enjoy a tame shift.

He was in a good mood when his first call came in.

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?" Sam said, hoping he didn't sound too bright and cheery.

"_My neighbor is parked in front of my driveway. Again! I need the cops to tow him._"

Sam sighed, mentally; he couldn't let his disappointment at poor behavior show to a caller. "What's the address?"

The "citizen," as the dispatchers were instructed to refer to their callers, provided his information, and provided some bonus words of annoyance when Sam couldn't guarantee that the police would have the car towed. For the millionth time, Sam was glad that every 9-1-1 call was recorded, as this "citizen" seemed to think his own personal wishes stood far above anything else in the world. If there was a complaint, the guy wouldn't have a leg to stand on.

Sam dispatched the appropriate law enforcement vehicle, and settled back into his chair. He was glad he'd brought his crossword puzzle. He worked through a few clues, but just as he was stymied by 7-Down: Semi-aquatic oviparous mammal, eight letters (what the heck is 'oviparous,' anyhow?), his line rang again.

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"

"_My stove is on fire! I-I-I was just cooking eggs, is all! I think it's spreading to the rest of the kitchen!_"

"What's the address?"

"_2574 Highland Park Drive, apartment 3-D._"

"Are you out of the apartment?"

"_Yes, I'm calling from downstairs. People are getting out of the building—it's filling up with smoke!_"

"All right. I have 2-5-7-4 Highland Park Drive, 3-D as in 'Dog.' Is that correct?"

"_Yes!"_

"Ma'am, the fire department is on their way; please leave the building and do not go back inside for any reason."

"_Got it!_"

The line clicked. Sam brought the location and its details up on his computerized map, and started pushing in buttons to tone out the correct fire stations.

"Station 51, Truck 60, Ladder 127, Station 8; stove fire, reportedly spreading. 2574 Highland Park Drive, apartment 3-D as in Dog. 2-5-7-4 Highland Park Drive, Apartment 3-D as in Dog; cross street Columbus. Time out: 2054."

As per standard procedures, he then sent a Sheriff's car and an ambulance.

Sam went back to his crossword. Some word the caller had said reminded him of something. He wished he had access to the tape recording of his conversation, but he didn't. He tapped his eraser on the page as he went over the call in his head.

Eggs! That was it! 'Oviparous' had something to do with eggs.

Sam filled in 7-Down with satisfaction: P-L-A-T-Y-P-U-S.

Sometimes he missed active duty, but not tonight.

~!~!~!~

Engine 51 arrived at the scene ahead of any of the other units attached to the incident. Mike pulled past the building, where there was an extremely well-placed hydrant. Cap took a look at the situation, and radioed in his initial report. There was smoke coming from the ground floor, and people waving out from an open window on the third floor.

"L.A., Engine 51 on scene. We have a three-story apartment building with heavy smoke pushing from the first floor, and multiple entrapments on the third floor. Have Ladder 127 approach from the north on Columbus to assist with evacuation."

Cap switched the radio over to broadcast from the speakers on the roof of the cab. "On the third floor; stay where you are! You're in no immediate danger, and a ladder truck is on its way to assist you."

"Chet, Marco—pull an inch-and-a-half and knock it down. John, Roy—assist with evacuating the building."

Mike was already busy hitting the hydrant. From the looks of things, the water in the engine's booster tank could probably do the job, but water was his job, so water he'd get.

The resident of unit 3-D had conveniently left the door unlocked. Chet and Marco pulled their line in, pushing through a wall of smoke, and found the kitchen, right where they thought it would be. Two minutes later, the fire was extinguished, and the kitchen was a soggy, sooty mess. Most of the rest of the small apartment wasn't left in very good shape, either, but better than it would've been if the fire had spread.

"That was easy," Marco said to Chet.

"C'mon, man; you know I hate it when you jinx us like that."

"Oh, give me a break, Kelly," Marco said. "You know I'm not superstitious."

"Yeah, well, I am. So behave."

They went back to the engine.

"Just the kitchen, Cap," Marco said. "But the whole place is a mess, of course."

"All right—go ahead and overhaul and salvage," Cap replied.

"L.A., cancel Station 8; continue the other units for evacuation and smoke removal."

There was a lot of smoke, and the interior stairwells were filled with enough smoke to scare people into staying out of them. As Cap put the mobile radio's microphone down, Ladder 127 pulled into position on the corner of the building. In just a few minutes, they'd have the third floor evacuated.

Cap sighed. It wasn't entirely true, that old saying about 'where there's smoke, there's fire.' There _had_ been a fire, but it was gone. But in a 12-unit, 3-story apartment building with interior staircases, the smoke would keep them busy for a while yet. He watched Chet and Marco head into the fire unit to start with overhaul and salvage.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cap noticed a civilian—a mountain of a man—walking towards the building. He frowned; anyone with any sense was still walking _away_ from the location, even though the fire was out. Cap approached the man, keeping his eyes open on the situation as a whole as he did so.

"Sir, it's not safe to go back in yet," Cap said.

The man whirled around to face him. "That's my girlfriend's apartment building."

"The fire is out; everyone's safe. There's nothing to worry about. Now please, keep away from the building."

The man's eyes drilled levelly into Cap's. Even though he wasn't accustomed to being eye-to-eye with people, Stanley didn't flinch.

The man blinked. "Fine," he said. He stalked over to a bench by the curb, and sat down.

"Steve!" a woman's voice shouted.

Cap watched as the man's head whipped towards the source of the voice.

"Hey, baby," the man said. "What happened?"

Cap relaxed; now the man knew for sure his girlfriend was safe. For a minute, Cap was worried that he was going to have a situation on his hands. He turned his attention back to the task at hand, and let the girlfriend take care of Steve.

Inside the fire apartment, Chet and Marco began making sure the fire was indeed truly out. They covered the refrigerator with a salvage cover to protect it from debris that would fall as they took the ceiling down, but left the stove alone, since it was a total loss. They started pulling down the ceiling, looking for hot spots that could rekindle the fire. They found one, right over the stove, and drenched it with the line they still had handy.

"Hey, Chet, I think this wall between the kitchen and the dining room's gonna have to get opened up; the sheetrock is still steaming, here."

"All right—I'll go get some salvage covers for the furniture in the dining room. I'll be right back."

Outside the building, Steve was having a tense conversation with his girlfriend.

"If they find it, we're both in trouble," the woman said. "It's your shit; _you_ go get it."

"Fine."

"Look—the fireman is coming out. Now's your chance."

"Are you sure there was just one guy in there, Carol?"

"Pretty sure."

Steve sighed. "Fine. Here I go."

Looking around himself quickly to make sure nobody was paying attention, Steve trotted to the front door and ducked inside. Nobody came after him, so he went straight into Carol's apartment and made a beeline for the kitchen.

In the kitchen, Marco heard movement in the apartment. He lowered his pike pole from the ceiling he was ripping down and went to the doorway between the kitchen and the rest of the apartment.

"Chet, we might also need a—"

Marco and Steve were suddenly face to face.

"Sir, you really can't be in here. It's not sa—"

Steve yanked the pike pole away from Marco and threw it into the dining room.

"Get out," Steve said.

"What?" Marco couldn't believe what he was hearing. "No, I said, _you_ have to get out. It's very unsafe in here." As if to illustrate his point, a chunk of ceiling fell into the middle of the kitchen.

"Get. Out."

Marco still didn't move. He was totally unprepared for what came next. Steve reached out and took him by the arm, yanking him out of the kitchen doorway and sending him sprawling to the floor in the next room. Although Marco felt like his arm had just been pulled from its socket, he quickly got to his feet, and saw Steve rummaging through the freezer. Steve opened a can, and removed something from it, shoving it into the front of his shirt.

Marco realized his mistake as soon as he made it. Not wanting to be seen by Steve, he moved slowly away from the doorway. But not soon enough for Steve to think he hadn't been observed.

Marco found himself pulled into the kitchen, and hoisted up against the wall he and Chet were about to open.

"You didn't see anything. If you did, you're a dead man. Got it?"

Marco nodded. As a reward, Steve took him by his lapels with one hand, punched him in the gut with the other, and then threw him on the floor like a ragdoll. Marco instinctively put a hand out to catch himself, and felt something go very wrong in his elbow.

Steve ran out the apartment door, cursing Carol under his breath for not knowing there was still a fireman in there, and for setting her fucking kitchen on fire in the first place. Before he could exit the building, he heard someone else coming in the front entrance—probably the short guy who'd come out before. He ducked into an unlocked apartment, realizing that was a better idea anyhow. He headed to a ground-level window in the bedroom. He hauled the window open, but then turned slowly and looked at the room he was in.

"Why the fuck not?" Steve said to himself, laughing. "I'm never coming back here anyhow." He rifled the bureau, and found some interesting-looking jewelry that went straight into his pockets. He found a wallet lying on the dresser, there for the taking, and liberated it as well. He left the pocketbook, but took the wallet out of it. The front of his shirt was bulging by the time he tumbled, unseen, out of the bedroom window and into the bushes. He disappeared down Columbus street.

On his way back into the building, Chet passed the noisy gas-powered positive-pressure ventilation fan that was set up in the front entrance. In the hallway, he thought he heard a noise from one of the apartments. He frowned—everyone was supposedly out from all the ground-floor units. He pounded on the door.

"Fire department! Anyone in here?"

The door must not have been latched, because it swung open on his second pound. He peered inside, and didn't see or hear anything. He shrugged and closed the door again, noting the unit number: 3-B, directly across from the fire apartment.

"Hey Marco, sorry that took so long, I had to—" Chet stopped short when he found Marco on the floor in the kitchen.

"Whoa—you okay? What happened?"

Marco had already decided what happened. He definitely did _not_ just get manhandled by a civilian. No way, no how. "I slipped in a puddle—no big deal." _Slipping. Yeah, that could happen to anyone._

"You sure? Lemme help you up."

Marco extended his uninjured arm, and let Chet haul him to his feet.

"Thanks."

"You sure you're okay?"

"Oh yeah, just a little tumble. No need to sic the Dynamic Duo on me."

Chet laughed. "I hear ya. Hey, let's rip a wall open."

"Sounds good."

They moved the dining room furniture away from the potentially problematic wall, covered it, and started ripping the sheetrock from the wall. Chet noticed that Marco was favoring his right arm, but didn't say anything. No fireman wanted to make a big deal of a minor injury, and no fireman wanted to admit to an injury caused by slipping and falling. So he just let it go. They'd all done the same thing at one point or another.

An hour later, the building had been ventilated, and declared safe for occupancy, with the exception of the fire apartment and the one immediately above it. The luckier residents began returning to their apartments, while the fire department wrapped up their operations.

Chet and Marco were loading hose on the engine, as was their usual task in the mop-up phase. Marco's elbow and shoulder were getting more and more painful with each length of supply line they laid on the hosebed.

"Hey, man, are you sure your arm is okay?" Chet said. "It looks like you can barely bend it at all."

"It's fine," Marco snapped. "It's just stiff, is all."

"All right, all right!" Chet said, hands up in mock surrender. He took the coupling that Marco handed up to him, and attached the new piece of supply line to the lengths already laid flat in the hosebed. He laid the rest of that length in the bed as Marco fed it up to him, and they repeated the procedure until all the supply line had been relaid on the truck. They drained and repacked the inch-and-a-half line they'd used, and they were ready to roll.

Marco sat silently in his seat in Big Red's cab. He barely made it through the last part of the hose-packing procedure, and he was sure Chet was watching his every move by the end. His elbow and shoulder were screaming at him.

_I'll just tough it out for the rest of the shift, and then go home and rest. No problem. I've done it before, and I'll do it again. I'm no sissy._

Back at the station, Marco waited until he was sure Chet wasn't watching as he struggled out of his coat. He took a quick detour to his locker, and popped two extra-strength Tylenol before heading back to the bay. The squad was gone, having been called out on a run straight from the fire scene. Mike was hosing the engine down, and Chet was getting ready to squeegee the water towards the sloping apron, where it would drain into the gutter.

Marco gritted his teeth, and was about to grab the small squeegee to clear the water from the engine's windows and mirrors when Cap approached him from behind.

"Say, Lopez, you're looking a little tired, there. Everything okay?"

Marco nodded. "Sure thing, Cap. Just tired. That's all."

"All right, then. Carry on."

Cap clapped him on the shoulder—the wrong one—and the pain sent Marco to his knees.

"Marco? What … geez, pal, you're hurt!"

Marco cradled his damaged arm, kneeling on the polished cement floor, unable to reply.

_Okay, so the macho thing wasn't working anymore_.

"Chet! Mike! Need a hand, here!" Cap called.

Mike shut of the bay's reel line, and Chet leaned his squeegee up against the engine. They both carefully made their way around the truck, heeding the slippery floor.

"Marco? Jesus," Chet said.

"Let's get him up," Cap said. "You okay for us to help you up, Marco?" Cap asked.

Marco nodded, and the movement shot pain through his shoulder. The three men helped him to his feet.

"I'll go get a chair from the ready room," Chet said, while Cap and Mike supported Marco.

"What happened, pal?" Cap said.

"Fell," Marco gritted out between clenched teeth. He was invested in the lie at this point, and was almost starting to believe it himself.

"Yeah, Cap," Chet said, as he placed a wooden chair behind Marco. "He was on the floor in the kitchen of the fire apartment when I came back from getting something. Said he slipped in a puddle. C'mon, Marco, there's a chair right behind you. Now sit down, pal."

Marco sat down, still cradling his arm to his body.

Cap squinted at him, partly concerned, partly annoyed. He went to the call station.

"L.A., Station 51."

"_Go ahead, 51._"

"L.A., what's Squad 51's status?"

"_Squad 51 is returning to quarters._"

"L.A., we have a non-critical code I at our station; please inform Squad 51. Also, be advised Engine 51 is currently down one man."

"_Copy_."

As was proper procedure, dispatch toned Squad 51 out to a code I at Station 51, thus setting off the station's tones.

"All right, ah, let's get some ice on this," Cap said. "Marco, what's hurt?"

"Elbow, and shoulder," Marco gasped.

"All right—Chet, Mike—make him some ice packs. I'll go call the chief and see if we can get a sub. Marco, we'll talk later. Hang in there, pal, okay?"

Marco had learned his lesson about nodding. "Yep."

In the squad, the mobile radio beeped, signaling an imminent call.

"BEEP BEEP BEEP! _Squad 51, respond to Station 51 for an unknown non-critical code-I. Time out, 2316_."

Johnny and Roy looked at each other.

"What the hell?" Johnny said to Roy. "Squad 51, responding," he said into the mobile radio.

**TBC**

**A/N: **Yeah, I don't usually split UTR stories into two chapters, but this one is longer than usual. More soon! And yes, dispatch can and will tone you out to your own station. I always wonder if they're silently laughing when they do that. My guess is yes, especially if it's an alarm panel activation.


	10. Close to Home: Part 2 of 2

**Chapter 10: Close to Home, Part 2 of 2**

Roy backed the squad into the already open bay. Chet ran out from the day room to usher them in.

"C'mon, hurry! Marco hurt himself at the last scene, and didn't say anything, and I guess it's worse than he thought, because Cap—oh man, poor Cap!—clapped him on the shoulder, and down he went. He's really hurting, guys," Chet said, helping carry equipment into the day room.

Roy and Johnny entered the day room to find Marco seated in a chair, his right arm supported by a couch cushion someone had placed on his lap. His face, several shades paler than was normal for him, was dotted in sweat, and his jaw was visibly clenched. His uniform shirt had been removed and draped over another chair at the table, and the kitchen wastebasket was sitting ominously between his knees.

"Marco, what happened?" Roy said.

"I … I had an accident at the apartment fire this evening. I, uh, landed on my arm pretty hard, I think, and my elbow and shoulder are just killing me." Marco was satisfied with the new wording of his explanation. It wasn't an outright lie, even though it wasn't by far the whole truth.

"All right. Anything else besides that arm?" Roy asked.

"No, that seems like plenty to me," Marco said. He knew he'd have a bruise on his belly, where the guy punched him, but there was no reason they needed to know that. It was just a bruise.

"I'm sure it is plenty. Let's have a look," Roy said, while Johnny got an initial set of vitals. He set up the biophone, even though they were right next to the station's phone, because phone-line calls didn't get recorded, and the county's EMS system now required that everything be recorded unless it wasn't possible.

Roy gently palpated Marco's shoulder, starting from the neck and working his way outwards. The joint seemed aligned, not dislocated, but was visibly swollen compared to his left side. The collarbone seemed intact, and Marco didn't flinch when Roy ran his fingers over it, until he got to the place where the collarbone approached the outside edge of the shoulder. Marco hissed in pain.

"Sorry," Roy said. He gently felt the back of Marco's shoulder; again, the bones seemed free of major fractures, but when his probing fingers approached the outside of the shoulder, Marco reacted. Roy continued to feel down Marco's upper arm.

"Any pain in the upper arm, between your shoulder and your elbow?"

"I don't think so," Marco said, between clenched teeth. "The shoulder and elbow are so bad I can't really tell, though. And from my elbow, it shoots down my arm into my fingers."

Roy reached Marco's elbow, and Marco made a short, strangled sound, and broke out in a fresh sheen of sweat.

"That's the spot," he said. "Oh shit, I think I'm gonna—"

Roy supported Marco's arm as he retched into the strategically placed wastebasket. Chet got him some water, and he rinsed and spat.

"Sorry, Marco," Roy repeated. He continued down Marco's forearm, and still didn't feel any obvious fractures.

"Do you think it's broken?" Marco asked. "I mean, it hurts a whole lot, but until just now, I was … getting by."

"I don't know." Roy said. "I didn't feel any major displaced fractures, but that doesn't mean much. And connective tissue injuries can really hurt a lot too. You definitely need to have it x-rayed, though."

"Yeah," Marco said. "I guess I can't just ignore it and hope it will go away."

"You sure can't, pal," said Cap. "Right now, I want you to take care of yourself, but later, we're going to have a conversation about this."

"Sorry, Cap," Marco said. "I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it now. Just get to the hospital, and when you can, let us know how you are, okay pal?"

"Yeah. I will. Sorry."

"Marco, we're gonna need to splint up your arm, and I kind of think it might be a good idea for you to have some pain medication on board before we do that. If you're hurting so bad you're vomiting, you need it."

"Okay," Marco said wanly. "As long as it doesn't make me puke anymore."

"I can't guarantee that," Roy said. "Most of the painkillers have nausea as a side effect."

"Marco, trust me on this—let us give you something if Rampart says it's okay," Johnny said.

"Come on, Marco," Chet said. "If anyone would know, it's Gage, since he's been on both ends of that needle more times than anyone I know."

"Ha ha," Johnny said, "but he's right."

"Okay," Marco said.

"Lemme get on the horn to Rampart," Johnny said. "Marco, on a scale of zero to ten, where zero is no pain and ten is the worst you can imagine, where would you put yourself right now?"

"It was probably a five right after it happened, but about a seven or eight now. I don't really want to imagine a ten."

"Don't blame you there," Johnny said. "Rampart, this is Squad 51."

"_Go ahead, 51._" Johnny recognized Joe Early's voice at the other end of the line.

"Rampart, we have a 28-year-old fireman with an elbow and shoulder injury after a fall on the job. He's conscious and alert and has no other injuries. Vitals are: respirations twenty, pulse ninety-five, and BP 140/84. There are no obvious fractures or displacement, but both joints are visibly swollen. The patient rates his pain as seven to eight, with radiation from the elbow to the fingertips. He vomited when the elbow injury was palpated."

"Copy, 51. Fifty milligrams meperidine IM, splint, and transport."

Johnny acknowledged Rampart's instructions on the biophone. "Ten-four, Rampart. Fifty milligrams meperidine IM, splint, and transport."

Marco felt mildly guilty about causing Johnny to pass along a lie. But it was true, sort of. He did fall. It was just that other things happened first.

"Mike, could you get us an ambulance dispatched, non-code-R?" Johnny asked, as Roy drew up the dose of Demerol.

"Sure thing, Gage." Mike trotted out to the call station to contact dispatch.

"Do I seriously have to go in an ambulance? Can't I just go in the squad, since I won't have an IV or anything?"

Johnny shook his head. "Sorry, pal. The rule is, if we medicate, you're transported by ambulance. Plus, think about it—a seatbelt on that shoulder would be pretty grim."

Roy prepped a spot on Marco's left shoulder. "Here comes the shot." He sent the needle home, and Marco didn't flinch.

"We'll give that a few minutes to kick in, and then get you splinted up," Johnny said. "It'll probably make you feel stupid and drowsy, but if you're puking from pain, you need it."

"I guess it was more this sickening feeling—that something's wrong, you know? That was what made me throw up, I think," Marco said. "Not so much the pain. But it does hurt a lot."

"Well, all those things are your body talking to you," Johnny said.

"I guess I should've listened to it," Marco admitted.

Mike returned to the ready room. "ETA is five minutes."

Marco sighed, and waited. Nobody knew quite what to say, least of all him.

"Could I have some more water, please?" he asked.

"Sure," Roy said. "Not too much, though. Just a few small sips."

Marco rinsed and spat again, and took a few sips, and waited some more.

The Mayfair rig pulled up into the back parking lot, and Marco watched as Mike opened the kitchen door for them.

_Whoa._

Suddenly, the room and its furnishings seemed larger, and all his firefighter friends seemed very, very tiny. He laughed at how small Chet looked, leaning against a gigantic brown refrigerator.

"Uh huh," Johnny said. "And is your arm feeling any better?"

"What?" Marco asked.

"I'll take that as a 'yes,'" Johnny replied. "Okay, pal. Let's get you splinted up. You have your arm bent, now, so I'm guessing that's the most comfortable position for it?"

"Sure, Johnny. Whatever you say."

Johnny pulled a bent-arm splint out of their splint bag, along with various items for padding. "I'll try not to move it around too much, but it's probably gonna hurt, so I'm sorry. Roy, you wanna support his forearm while I—yeah, perfect. Okay, Marco, I'll try to make this quick."

"Okay. Uh, ow, OW!"

"Sorry, man. Roy, a little more padding under the—okay. That looks good."

"Fuck, Gage, OW!" Marco didn't say anything else, but shut his eyes tightly and groaned through clenched teeth.

Chet took a step backwards, eyebrows raised. He'd never, _ever_ heard his best friend utter that particular word, and had teased him mercilessly about it. But he decided, when he saw a tear form when Marco closed his eyes tightly, that he would never, ever mention it. Ever.

"Sorry, Marco. That part's all done. I'm just going to secure your arm to your chest, around your back like this—that'll keep your shoulder from moving around. One more around, and … done. Take a breather, pal."

Marco literally just concentrated on breathing, or, more to the point, not puking while breathing, for a minute or so. He gradually unclamped his eyelids, and discovered that he'd somehow forgotten once again how much his arm was hurting. Which was fine with him.

"Better?" Johnny asked.

"Yeah. Sorry I yelled at you."

"Hey, I deserved it, right?" Johnny said lightly. "Okay, let's get this show on the road."

Johnny looked at Chet, who looked nearly as bad as Marco, and decided Chet might feel better if he got to help somehow.

"Chet, you wanna help Marco get to the stretcher, while we pack up here? And Cap, Marco will need his wallet and keys, for when they send him home."

"Sure. C'mon, Lopez. No more malingering. Time to get up," Chet said, taking Marco's good arm and helping him up. Once he had Marco standing, he let him adjust to being upright, and then moved him along towards the stretcher, which was only a yard away.

"You're really short," Marco said, "especially next to the fridge."

"Sure, pal. Okay, sit yourself down there, nice and easy …" Chet swung Marco's legs up onto the stretcher, and let the attendants buckle him in. Cap returned with the wallet and keys, and handed them to Roy, minus the car key, which he held onto.

"You wanna ride in with him, Johnny, and I'll take the squad?" Roy asked.

"You bet. See you there."

The phone rang just as Marco was being wheeled out.

"You take care, Marco. Let us know how you're doing when you can."

"Sure, Cap."

Captain Stanley answered the phone as Mike and Chet wished Marco well, and the squad and the ambulance departed for Rampart.

"L.A. County Fire Department, Station 51, Captain Stanley speaking."

"Hi, Hank. Jesse Roberts here."

"Jesse!" Hank greeted his friend, a Sheriff's Deputy who occasionally responded to calls with Station 51. "How can we help you?"

"Well, Hank, I'm at a scene that I believe your crew was just at—a fire at Highland Park apartments—dealing with a few things. The occupants of the apartment across the hall from the one the fire was in just reported some things missing, and I was wondering if you or any of your men had seen anything unusual."

"Hang on a second. We're a little discombobulated here at the moment, because as it turns out, one of our guys got hurt at that scene, and we just saw him off to the hospital. Can I call you back in a few minutes?"

"Actually, why don't I call you back, since I'm still at the scene."

"Of course. I only have two men still here right now, but I'll ask them, and think about it myself. Five minutes should be plenty."

"Okay. Talk to you then."

Hank hung up the phone, and frowned. This fire was quickly turning into one of his least favorite incidents in recent memory.

"Ask us what, Cap?" Mike said, once Hank turned around.

"That was a deputy who's at our last scene. The apartment across from the unit where the fire was seems to have been burglarized, and he's wondering if we saw anything unusual."

Chet spoke up immediately. "Cap, I went back out to the engine to get some salvage covers, and when I was coming back through the hallway, I thought I heard something coming from 3-B. I knocked on the door, and it opened. I took a quick look inside, but didn't see anyone, and nobody answered when I hollered, so I forgot all about it, especially since Marco was down when I got back into the fire unit."

Cap nodded. "Okay. I'm guessing the deputy will want to talk to you. Mike, did you see anything unusual?"

Mike frowned. "Well, Cap, there was that guy. The big guy, who kind of got in your face. I didn't hear what you were saying to him, or vice versa, but he seemed … off."

"You're absolutely right, Mike—he was strange. But then he sat down with his girlfriend, who was the occupant of the fire unit, so I chalked it up to nerves." Cap's eyebrows met in the middle as he frowned again. "Say, I don't recall seeing him with her when we were leaving. It didn't bother me then, but, don't you think he'd stick around?"

Mike nodded. "Yeah, Cap. And you're right—he definitely wasn't there. I did notice that the lady from the apartment seemed to be kind of looking around, like maybe she was wondering where he went."

"Marco might have heard something—though probably not, from inside the apartment we were working in. I'll ask him when we get a chance to catch up."

"Good plan," Cap said. "And now, I need to get on to my task of finding us a sub. Since dispatch knows we're down a man, we'll only get called out for second alarms or else really minor things, so enjoy your time while you have it."

Cap disappeared into his office, and Mike and Chet headed to the apparatus bay. Chet stopped for a moment, and Mike nearly collided with him.

"I need to talk to Cap for a minute," he said. "I'll be out in a sec."

"Sure," Mike said, having a pretty good idea what Chet was going to ask.

Chet tapped on the open door of Cap's office.

"Kelly? Come on in," Cap said.

Chet closed the door.

"What's on your mind, pal?" Cap asked, though he already could guess.

"Well, don't take this the wrong way, but I'm kinda hoping you won't be too rough on Marco for not saying anything about how bad he was hurting. I mean, we all do it. None of us likes to wimp out, you know? And it's just his bad luck that it really did turn out to be something he couldn't ignore."

Cap sighed. "Yeah, I know. And it's his bad luck that I clapped him on the shoulder like that, too. If I'd known, of course I wouldn't have … well, there's no point in dwelling on that. If I'd known, we wouldn't be having this discussion at all, now would we?"

"Uh, I guess not, Cap."

"Don't worry, Kelly. I _will_ have to have a word with him, but I won't be too mad. After all, like you said, we all try to push through things like this once in a while, so it's not a big deal."

~!~!~!~

Marco hardly noticed the short trip to Rampart. Except for his one bizarre remark to Chet, he turned out to be a person who got quieter, rather than louder, on opiates. Johnny didn't mind; he found himself thinking about times that he'd concealed injuries of his own. He hoped Cap wouldn't be too hard on Marco. Johnny had pulled the same stunt so many times that Cap had a right to be annoyed, but this was a first for Marco.

They pulled up in the ambulance area of the ER entrance, and Johnny and the two Mayfair attendants wheeled Marco in. Dixie was there to greet them.

"Treatment three, gentlemen," she said. "Dr. Early will be in momentarily."

"Mind if I wait with him, Dix?" Johnny asked.

"Sure." Dixie smiled back at both of them. All the paramedics, at all stations, on all shifts, were highly protective of their own men, so everyone cut them a little slack when it was one of their own that they brought in. Dispatch wasn't even so quick to ask for a status report, once they heard "Code I."

Dr. Early appeared within a minute or two.

"Hey, Doc; this is my buddy Marco Lopez. He fell at a fire scene earlier, and landed real bad on his elbow and shoulder. But," Johnny said sheepishly, "I guess I told you all that on the radio."

Early smiled his mild smile back at him. "That's all right, John. So, Mr. Lopez, I'm Dr. Early. Could you please tell me, in your own words, what happened? And then we'll get some x-rays."

"Well," Marco said slowly, "it's like Johnny said, pretty much. I landed with my arm stretched out, like this," he said, demonstrating with his left arm, "and something 'went' in my elbow."

"Did you hear any sound? A popping, or cracking? Any kind of sound, Mr. Lopez?"

Marco shook his head, and winced as the movement jarred his shoulder. "No. Just pain. And kind of a sick feeling. And please call me Marco."

"And that's when you hurt your shoulder, too?"

Marco hesitated, and the observant doctor noticed his eyes flick over to Johnny, and then back again. "Uh, I guess so."

"All right," Dr. Early said, filing the hesitation away for the moment. "Let me have a look, and then we'll get some x-rays. Once those are done, we'll talk about what to do next."

Just then, Roy popped in to the treatment room.

"Hey, Marco—you doing okay?"

"Yeah, Roy. I guess so."

"Dixie's got your keys and wallet up at the nurses' station," Roy said.

"Thanks."

Johnny stood up from his seat next to the exam table. "Marco, me and Roy better get back to work. You let them take care of you, all right? The folks here are the best."

"Thanks, Johnny. I will." Marco was secretly relieved Roy and Johnny were leaving; if he had to yell again, he'd rather do it in front of strangers than friends.

Marco gritted his teeth as Dr. Early partially unwrapped the splint to check the injury.

"I don't want to take this off all the way; I just need to feel if anything's out of place."

"Okay, Doc. I'll try not to yell too loud."

As he promised, Dr. Early was indeed very gentle, but Marco couldn't hold in a single yelp as the doctor palpated the most tender part of his elbow.

"All right, I'm done with that for now. Let's get some x-rays, and then we'll see what's next."

Marco closed his eyes—just for a minute, he promised himself—and tried not to think about anything at all.

~!~!~!~

Thirty minutes later, Joe Early studied the x-rays in the privacy of his office first, before going back to see his patient. He was immediately concerned when he got his first look at the x-rays: they didn't tell the same story that his patient had. Put together with the subtle body language he'd observed earlier, the doctor knew he had a problem on his hands. He double-checked the name on the x-rays, even though he was quite sure there were no other ER patients with arm injuries at the moment, and took the x-rays down from the lightbox to show to his patient.

Marco opened his eyes when the doctor returned to the room.

"That was quick," he said.

"It actually took a little longer than usual, but time can pass strangely when you have opiates in your system. How is your pain, by the way?"

"I guess it must be better, since I think I just fell asleep."

"All right." Dr. Early put the x-rays up on the lightbox on the wall, and turned the backlights on. "Let me show you what I see, here." He pointed to a picture of the elbow joint. "The good news is that there don't appear to be any fractures. What it looks like here, is that the radius—one of the two bones in the forearm—has been pulled away from the elbow joint. Right now, the end of the radius near your elbow is slightly out of place. This injury is fairly common in young children who have had their arms accidentally or purposely pulled, but more unusual in adults. It's likely that the sensation of the pain shooting down your arm into your fingers is coming from a pinched nerve, which can be quite painful."

"Oh," Marco said. He didn't really know what he was looking at, but he took the doctor's word for it.

"There's something similar in your shoulder. It's not a true dislocation, because the top of your upper arm bone is still in the socket, but frankly, it looks like it was pulled out of the socket at some point, and popped back in on its own. The end of your upper arm bone is farther from the other bones than it should be. Not by much, but enough to cause the symptoms you're experiencing."

"Okay," Marco said. Once again, he didn't really know what he was looking at.

Dr. Early turned the lightbox off, and looked directly at Marco.

"I do have a concern that I'd like to ask you about."

Marco gulped. He'd heard the doctor say "pulled" several times, and had an idea of what might be coming. "Okay," he said.

"These injuries—both of them—aren't really consistent with just falling on your outstretched arm. Is there anything else you'd like to tell me about?"

Marco hesitated for a moment.

"It's important, Marco," Dr. Early said. "I'm not accusing you of anything. It's just important that your injuries are treated correctly, and right now I have some doubts about my diagnosis."

Dr. Early's steady gaze, his nonjudgmental attitude, and the good things he'd heard about the man from Roy and John came together, and Marco made his decision.

"I didn't just fall," he said quietly.

"All right," Dr. Early said. "Would you like to tell me exactly what happened?"

"I screwed up," Marco said. "Big time. I didn't even really mean to. I was on the floor when my partner came back, and it was just so much easier to say I'd fallen, than it would've been to say, uh … "

Dr. Early didn't rush him, or push him in any way. He just waited.

Marco cleared his throat. "Uh, to say that a guy had pretty much beaten me up. He, uh, came into the apartment while Chet was out getting something—I guess he probably thought nobody was there. He … uh, told me to get out, but I didn't really get why he'd say that—I mean, I'd just instructed _him_ to get out, because it wasn't a safe place to be. And he just yanked my pike pole out of my hands, and shoved me."

"Go on," Dr. Early said neutrally.

"I should've just left, and gotten the cops in there—I know that now. But I just couldn't believe what was happening, so I picked myself up, and went to see what he was doing, which was really stupid, because I'm pretty sure now that he was getting his drug stash out of the freezer. He saw me, and … that's when he pretty much yanked my arm right out of the socket," Marco said in a rush. "Then he punched me in the gut, and tossed me on the floor like I was nothing. He was a big guy. Maybe even taller than Cap, so probably six feet five. And big. Like probably two-fifty."

"I'm sure he must have been big," Dr. Early said. "You firemen are a tough lot. I don't imagine anyone close to your size would've been able to do that kind of damage."

Dr. Early had picked exactly the right thing to say, and Marco immediately felt more at ease.

"In any case: it's a simple non-surgical procedure to put the end of your radius back where it needs to be. It will be uncomfortable, but only for a few seconds, and then hopefully it will feel much better. My opinion is that your shoulder and elbow both just need immobilization in a sling for a while, but I'd like you to follow up in a few days with one of our orthopedists who specializes in upper extremity injuries. He's a former baseball player, and really knows arms. We'll have you out of here and feeling much better in no time."

"Thanks, Doc. I really appreciate it. And … I'm sorry you didn't get the whole truth. I mean, I'm sorry I didn't tell the truth."

"I was only worried about making sure the diagnosis matched the injury, so you would get proper treatment. But I'd like to make a suggestion about something else that might make you feel better."

Marco knew what was coming. "Fess up, you mean. Yeah. I'll do that. I know I need to. I'll talk to my captain tomorrow at a decent hour. And I'll tell the rest of the guys, too."

"I know Hank Stanley well enough to know that he'll be most concerned that you'll recover well, which you should, in three or four weeks. But he may not understand why you said what you did, or didn't say what you should have, more to the point. Before you talk to him, I think it would be a good idea for you to have a clear idea in your own mind about why you didn't tell the truth to begin with."

"I _know_ why, Doc. It's humiliating. The idea of a civilian just marching in and tossing me around, when I'm supposed to be this tough guy, doing a tough-guy job—that's just downright embarrassing."

"That's understandable." Dr. Early made himself a mental note to bring this particular case up with Dr. Morton at their next meeting, as an example of how good bedside manner can lead to a better outcome for a patient.

"So let's get this thing over with, Dr. Early," Marco said. "Putting that bone back where it belongs."

"That sounds like a good plan. I'm going to have a nurse come in and give you a muscle relaxant, and another dose of pain reliever—not because it's going to be incredibly painful to reduce that elbow, but because the dose you got in the field was the smallest dose, and I think you'll be more comfortable with a bit more in your system. Then we'll do a quick reduction, and a couple hours after that, you should be able to go home, with a prescription for pain medication, and a day's worth to tide you over until you can get it filled tomorrow."

"Okay."

"The nurse will be in shortly, and we'll let the medications start to work for a little while, so I'll see you in half an hour or so."

"Thanks, Doc." Marco checked the clock on the wall—nearly midnight, so too late to make any calls.

~!~!~!~

Four hours later, mind and body exhausted and hurting, Marco exited a cab in front of his apartment building. He fumbled his apartment door open, downed one of the tablets he'd been sent home with, and fell into his bed.

He was awakened by the phone just after eight. He was jolted awake by the pain when he tried to use his injured arm to answer the phone, having forgotten about the previous night's events. He swore out loud, and turned so he could pick the phone up with his left hand.

"Hello?"

"_Hey, Marco—sorry I woke you up_," Chet's voice said. "_But John and I are gonna swing by and drop your car off in about fifteen minutes. And I wanted to see you how are, too_."

"I'm … I guess I'm okay. Nothing's broken, and I'm just in a sling, but it sounds like I'll be out for a couple weeks."

"_That stinks, man. Sorry to hear it._"

"Yeah. But I guess it could've been a lot worse, too. Uh—is Cap still around?"

"_Uh huh—he's in the office. You want me to ask him to pick up?_"

"Yeah, thanks."

"_Okay—I'll tell him. See you in a few, all right?_"

"Thanks."

Marco's stomach churned at the thought of talking to his captain, but he also wanted to get it over with.

"_Hey, pal—are you doing okay?_"

"Yeah, Cap. Thanks. Listen—I need to tell you something."

"_All right,_" Cap said neutrally.

"First, I'm really sorry for not saying right away that I was hurt."

"_Well, I can't say I'm not disappointed about that, but I think that won't happen again, right, pal?_"

"Darned straight it won't." Marco cleared his throat. "But there's something else I need to tell you about that also won't happen again."

"_Oh_?" For one sick second, Cap thought Marco might be about to say he'd taken something from the apartment across the hall.

"I, uh … wasn't completely truthful about what happened."

Marco's stomach tied itself in an even tighter not during the few seconds of silence before Cap replied.

"_I see_," Cap said finally, his stomach also scrambling into knots. "_Go on_."

Marco spilled the entire story, keeping it neutral and one hundred percent truthful. He left any rationalizations or justifications until the very end.

"And I'm really sorry I lied, Cap. I was just so embarrassed about what happened that I used really poor judgment."

Cap was silent again for a few more tense seconds, as he was simultaneously relieved and concerned.

"_Marco, what did this guy look like?_"

Marco's eyebrows popped up at Cap's unexpected response. "That's easy. Huge. Six five, two fifty. Dark flannel shirt and jeans. Why?"

Cap sighed, and told the rest of the story.

Marco felt himself getting smaller and smaller as he heard what else had happened.

"_So you're going to need to talk to the sheriff, as soon as possible, and tell them what you saw_."

"All right."

There was another awkward moment of silence.

"_Look_," Cap said finally. "_You know I can't just ignore this._"

"I know," Marco said. "I'll take what's coming to me."

"_I know you will. We've never had any problems before, so I'm comfortable with a verbal warning. Consider yourself verbally warned that this needs to not ever happen again. Any of it. I expect that if you're injured on the job, you'll say so immediately. And I expect that if you see anything suspicious, you'll say so immediately as well. If there weren't the extenuating circumstance of your also being injured, I'd have to write you up for not mentioning this fellow, but I don't see the need for that in this particular instance._"

Marco sighed with relief. "Thanks, Cap. And I promise you, it won't happen again. Any of it."

"_I know it won't. And I also know you're beating yourself up over it. See if you can keep that down to a dull roar, all right? You're hurting enough already._"

"I'll try."

"_One more thing. I'm not going to say anything to the others_."

"But I should," Marco finished for him. "I _will_."

"_Good_."

"Sorry," Marco said, one last time.

"_Apology accepted, Marco. And we all hope you're doing okay. Call if you need anything, all right? No, scratch that—I'll check in on you later, and see what you need. And you better not hold back, okay?_"

"I promise, Cap. Thanks. For everything."

"_You're welcome. Now rest up. John and Chet will be there soon with your car_."

Marco hung up his phone, and for the thousandth time, praised his lucky stars for ending up with a captain like Hank Stanley. He praised those same stars again ten minutes later, when a tap on his door heralded the arrival of Chet and Johnny.

"Just a second," he called loudly, as he heaved himself out of bed. He was slightly embarrassed to be answering the door in the same uniform pants and t-shirt they'd put him in the ambulance in the previous night, and he knew he didn't smell good, either. But they were his friends, and they'd seen worse.

Marco opened the door, and it was indeed Johnny and Chet. "Hey, guys, come on in. I'd get you something, but I don't really have anything, and probably couldn't get it anyhow."

"Want me to make you some coffee?" Chet offered. "Or do you want us to go, so you can get back to bed?"

"Uh … actually, if you guys wouldn't mind sticking around for a cup of coffee, that'd be great."

"Sure thing, Marco," Johnny said. "We all had a super easy night, thanks to you, so no problem. You sit down, and me and Chet will take care of coffee. Say," Johnny continued, frowning, "you probably haven't had a thing to eat, have you?"

"Uh, no."

"Do you have eggs? Bread? Milk?" Johnny asked.

"I think so," Marco said.

"Good. I'll make us all breakfast. And then me and Chet will go to the store, and get you set for a couple days, and get your prescription filled."

"How did you know I—"

Johnny shook his head. "C'mon, man—it's me."

"Right." Marco smiled for the first time since before the incident the previous night. "Thanks."

He allowed himself to relax while his friends made breakfast, and allowed himself to have one more sinking feeling: his mother was going to go ballistic when she heard he'd gotten hurt at work.

The three of them sat at Marco's tiny table. Marco poked at his eggs with his fork in his left hand. He could tell he was hungry, and wasn't feeling sick from the medication any more, but still had that feeling in his stomach.

"You feeling okay?" Johnny asked.

"Uh …" Marco put his fork down. "I have to apologize to both of you," he said.

Johnny shook his head. "No need. It happens. Besides, you didn't do anything wrong."

Marco didn't say anything.

Chet frowned. "Did you?"

Marco sighed, and steeled himself for something that was going to be even more unpleasant than the reduction of his elbow. "Yeah. Yeah, Chet, I did. I didn't tell the truth about what really happened."

Even Johnny put his fork down when he heard that.

Chet and Johnny listened as Marco told his true story for the third time. It was harder this time, rather than easier, and he understood why, when he got to the apologies he'd promised.

"So Chet, I apologize to you, because I could've put you in danger by not being fit to respond, and by not telling anyone about that guy. And Johnny—I made you pass along information that wasn't true. So both of you, I'm truly sorry."

They all sat there silently for a few seconds while they digested what Marco had told them.

"When I was seventeen," Chet said finally, "I got beat up by two bullies at school. I was a senior; they were sophomores. I told my parents I'd fallen down the stairs. A couple weeks later, those same two kids beat the crap out of a freshman."

"One time," Johnny said, "I hurt myself at the beginning of a shift—just a _little_ bit, mind you—and didn't say anything to anyone. Me and Roy worked a full arrest later, and the guy didn't make it. For the rest of my life, I'm gonna second guess whether my CPR was good enough, or whether my sore wrist got in the way."

"I guess this is the kind of thing that a lot of people learn the hard way," Marco said.

"Yep," said Johnny.

"I'll second that," Chet said.

"Thanks, guys," Marco said. "I really mean it."

~!~!~!~

Four weeks later, Marco was fit as a fiddle and back at work. Cap announced at roll call that the shift would begin with a meeting to discuss some issues. The six men sat at the table in the day room.

"First of all, I want to say that this discussion is not aimed at anyone in particular. I'm going to be talking about something that I think we've all experienced before. Every single one of us. Including me."

Marco shrank into his seat, understanding what the discussion was going to be about.

"What I'm talking about, folks, is recognition of an aspect of scene safety that I think we all neglect from time to time."

The other five men looked up—none of them had been expecting that would be the topic.

"What's that, Cap?" Roy asked.

"People," Cap said. "We know about traffic as a hazard. We know about flashover, backdraft, hazardous materials, building collapse, trench rescues—the list goes on and on for things we're well trained to be aware of. But recently, there have been several incidents, in this department and elsewhere, in which emergency personnel have been intentionally injured or even killed by civilians at the scene. So here's what's going to happen. Over the next three months, every active duty firefighter in the county is going to be trained in violence awareness and prevention. It's a full-day training, and you'll get paid your normal rate if you go during a regularly scheduled shift, or time and a half otherwise. HQ is sending us a calendar by the end of the week, and everyone is required to sign up for a session by the end of this month. Got it?"

"Got it," everyone said, in one way or another.

"Good," said Cap. "This is serious business, men. Over the weekend, a paramedic in Washington was shot and killed by a relative of a patient he was treating. Who knows whether this could have been prevented—but we can't take that kind of chance. More and more people own guns, and there's more and more drug-related violence as well. Any questions?"

Johnny raised his hand.

"This isn't school, Gage; just speak up."

"Oh. Okay. What I'm wondering is, will paramedics get extra training? I mean, I sometimes have felt uncomfortable at a scene, partly because there's just two of us, instead of four or six, and partly because there's no incident commander kind of keeping an eye on the big picture. And partly because we walk around with drugs, and people know it. We don't carry enough to really make for a big score, but people don't know that. Plus, we can get crammed into the back of a rig with someone who might go all nutso on us at any time. Sometimes we've already got cops with us, like that time that girl rolled over and came up with a knife and stabbed that cop, but sometimes not."

"Those are good points, John," Cap said. "I'll look into that. It might be worth your while to talk to Dr. Brackett about those concerns as well, in his capacity as medical director for the County EMS board."

"Okay. I'll talk to him next time we overlap. No," he said, "I'll get a meeting with him."

"Good. Anyone else?"

Nobody bit.

"All right. Carry on, fellas."

So they did.

The End (of this episode).

**Series TBC**


	11. A Cold Day In LA

A/N: I've been missing writing this series. I hope anyone's still reading!

**Chapter 11: A Cold Day in L.A.**

"It's hot," Marco said, sitting sullenly at the table, arms crossed over his chest as he scowled. "It's like ninety in here."

"Lopez, we all know it's hot. We're all living in the same world. So will you _please_ just _stop_ saying that?" Chet complained.

"Could you pass the beans, please?" Roy asked, ignoring the bickering.

"Sure." Chet gave the dish a shove, sending it across the table. On the way, it hit a bump and ran into Johnny's glass of milk, overturning it onto his plate.

"Aw, for the love of Pete!" Johnny said, jumping up to avoid being splashed. "Couldn't you just pass it like a normal adult?"

"Apparently not," Mike muttered. He stood up and got a clean plate, and piled a healthy portion of spaghetti on it from the pot on the stove, while Johnny scraped the salmon-colored mess Chet made into the trash.

"Thanks, Stoker," Johnny said, sitting down at the table again. "Good thing for you there was more, Chet," Johnny said, gesturing at Chet with his fork, "because I'm starved, and you oughta know better than to get between me and my dinner!"

"It was an accident!" Chet protested. "I couldn't've done that if I'd been trying to!"

"No, you would've accidentally come up with some other disaster," Marco said. "And I could use some of those beans when you're done, Roy."

"You're awfully quiet tonight, Cap," Mike said, during a lull in the conversation.

Chet and Johnny both snorted.

"Well, Stoker, I'd comment on the irony of that remark, but I don't have the energy. Plus, on a hot day like this, tempers flare up easily, and mine is no exception. So I'm just trying to stay out of this mess, is all."

"Good plan, Cap," Chet said. "You always know what to do."

"Can it, Kelly," Captain Stanley said. "Just … just eat your dinner. You never know when—"

BWAAM, BWOOOM BWEEEEEP! "_Squad 51, unknown type rescue, 4386 Villa Drive, 4-3-8-6 Villa Drive, cross street Bordeaux. Time out: 1809._"

Johnny crammed one more gargantuan bite of his dinner into his mouth, and he and Roy trotted out to the squad. Johnny was still chewing as Roy pulled out into traffic, but had swallowed by the time they reached the first intersection.

"I'm gonna get on the horn to dispatch and see if they can tell us anything else," he said. "I hate these unknown things."

Johnny picked up the handset of the mobile radio.

"L.A., Squad 51."

"_Go ahead, 51._"

"Do you have any additional information on our incident?"

"_Caller stated she could hear her neighbor moaning, but couldn't see anything, and all the doors were locked. Law enforcement and ambulance are en route._"

Johnny sighed. "Copy. 51 out." He wiped the sweat from his brow as he replaced the handset in its bracket."Maybe by the time I retire, they'll have AC in these things."

"Maybe," Roy said.

"And damn it, we're probly gonna hafta break in," Johnny complained.

"I don't know why that always bothers you so much," Roy said. "It's part of the job."

"It was just that one time, you know? Where the lady got mad that we busted her door, even though she probably woulda died if we hadn't gotten in?"

"Yeah, I know. But that's the exception," Roy said.

"I don't care. I still don't like it. Especially after that time we got accused of stealing that guy's wallet. I knew we hadn't done anything, but being treated like a criminal kinda made me feel like one, ya know?"

"I remember. That kind of stuck with me, too. But the cops will be there, and they're on our side here. Okay?" Roy frowned as the tires screeched when he took a corner a little fast.

"I know, I know," Johnny grumbled. "Here's the cross street. You're clear on the right."

Roy went through the intersection, and they pulled up in front of the house.

A woman was waiting, wringing her hands, in front of the building.

"Oh, thank goodness you're here! I could hear her, just barely, when I was watering the garden, but I can't hear anything anymore!"

"Are you the neighbor who called?" Johnny asked, as he unloaded some equipment from the squad.

"Yes—I was outside watering my plants, and I could hear her, very weakly," the woman said. "Oh, I hope she's all right—I mean, as all right as she _can_ be."

Roy looked at her questioningly. "Is she ill?"

"Oh—no, she's in a wheelchair. She had polio as a child."

"All right," Roy said. "We'll take care of her."

The black-and-white pulled up to the curb, and the officer and the two paramedics trooped to the front door. Johnny tried the door handle, on the off chance that it was unlocked, but had no luck.

"Nobody leaves their doors unlocked around here," the officer commented.

"Yeah, well, try before you pry," Johnny said, as he jammed the prying end of a Halligan bar between the door and the frame. He pushed the frame in just enough that the deadbolt cleared the strike plate on the frame, and Roy pushed the door in.

"Fire department!" Roy hollered as he entered. His voice bounced around, echoing off the terrazzo floors, but there was no response.

"I'll take this way; you go that way," Johnny said, as he headed into the kitchen. The low counters and wide doorways looked odd, but probably made life easier for the occupant of the apartment.

"Johnny, in here!" Roy called.

Johnny raced around the corner where he thought he heard Roy's voice coming from, and found him hovering over a still form sprawled out on the shiny floor. A wheelchair lay on its side on the floor, a few feet away. A large pool of urine suggested the woman had been on the floor for longer than anyone present wanted to think about.

"Miss? Miss?" Roy said. He squeezed the woman's earlobe when she didn't respond to his voice, and she mumbled, her arms moving slightly.

Johnny finished getting an initial set of vitals. "Pulse is 50, weak and irregular, respirations 6 and irregular, BP is 70 palp. Roy, call me crazy, but I think she's severely hypothermic."

"Not gonna bet against you, Junior," Roy said, as he started setting up the Biophone.

"Huh?" said the police officer. "But it's like eighty degrees in here, even with the AC going!"

"Do me a favor," Johnny said to the police officer. "See if you can find blankets. In the bedroom or something. We've got this one," he said, as he ripped open the package of the yellow emergency blanket, "but we need more."

"Uh, sure," the cop said. "But I'm sweating just thinking about it," he said, as he left the room.

"I guess we're gonna backboard her," Roy said, frowning. "Seems a little weird, with someone who's already paralyzed."

"Yeah," Johnny said, as he placed an oxygen mask over the patient's nose and mouth. "But she obviously can use her arms, and we can't rule out C-spine injury, so there we are."

"There we are," Roy agreed. He returned his attention to the Biophone, as Dr. Early came on the line.

"Rampart, we have a female patient, age approximately thirty-five, medical history significant for polio as a child. She's fallen from her wheelchair onto a cement floor. A large amount of urine on the floor suggests she's been here for some time. Patient is unresponsive to voice, but moved her arms to pain stimulus. Skin is cold and dry. Pupils are slightly dilated, and vitals are as follows." Roy repeated Johnny's readings, looking on as Johnny put the cervical collar on the woman's neck, and he and the officer rolled her onto the backboard.

"_51, her condition is suggestive of hypothermia. Is the floor cold?_"

"Affirmative, Rampart. The floor is polished cement, and is cold to the touch."

"Send me a strip, 51."

Roy affixed the EKG leads. "This will be lead 2."

On the datascope, Roy could see the arrhythmias that Johnny felt in the woman's irregular pulse.

"_Reading multiple arrhythmias, 51. She's likely severely hypothermic. Her body heat probably transferred to the thermal mass of the floor. Assume hypothermia—immobilize with great care, avoiding sudden movements and bumps. Remove any wet clothing, and cover with blankets. Is the patient compartment of the ambulance heated?_"

Johnny started cutting away the woman's urine-dampened clothing, and covered her with the yellow blanket before strapping her securely onto the backboard.

"Uh, unknown, Rampart, but on a day like this we should be able to get it pretty hot in there."

"_Understood. Keep her from losing any more body heat, and transport as soon as possible._"

"Affirmative. The ambulance just arrived, so our ETA is …" Roy thought about their location, and continued. "… approximately twelve minutes."

"_Copy, 51. Alert us to any changes en route._"

Roy and Johnny finished packaging their patient, swaddling her from head to toe in the blankets and quilt the police officer had retrieved from the bedroom.

"We gotta be real careful with this one," Johnny said, as the ambulance attendants came in with their stretcher.

"I still don't get it," the officer said, as the Mayfair attendants helped move the backboard to the stretcher.

"The floor's the same temperature as the ground," Johnny said, as he started to pack up their equipment. "Maybe fifty, fifty-five degrees. And it's cement. Sucks the heat right outta you. And she coulda been lyin' there for … well, who knows how long."

"Wow," the officer breathed. "Who'd'a thought? Kinda makes me feel a little chilly just thinking about it." He shuddered, as if to prove his point.

Johnny frowned, and paused in his movements. He shook his head. "Nah. Not me, man. Though maybe when we get back to the station, I'll lie on the apparatus bay floor for a while if it's still ninety degrees in the day room."

~!~!~!~

Johnny got stuck in traffic that the ambulance was able to zip past, and arrived at the hospital some fifteen minutes after Roy and the patient. Roy was in the staff lounge, filling out some paperwork and sipping some coffee.

"How's she doin'?" Johnny asked.

"Well, Dr. Early said it was still too soon to tell for sure, but that he thought she'd probably be okay. They got her some warmed IV fluids—had to cut a vein down to get access, but the warmed fluids and some warmed up blankets and heat packs are helping already, apparently."

"That's great!" Johnny said. "But that's a weird one for the records, ya know? Hypothermia, on one of the hottest days of the summer."

Roy raised his eyebrows. "You know we've seen weirder than that, Junior. Hypothermia's not all that weird, as things we see tend to go."

"Well I _know_ that, Roy. It's just weird _timing_, is all."

"Okay. I'll give you that," Roy said. "C'mon. Let's get back to the station."

"But it's air-conditioned in here!"

Roy sighed, and took the radio off his belt. "Squad 51, available."

~!~!~!~

_Station 51, 2052_.

Hank Stanley closed and locked the filing cabinet with satisfaction. Even though it had been a busy, hot, irritating day, he'd finished the paperwork from all the runs they'd had during the daytime part of the shift. He'd even had time to set up the next round of code inspections, so B-shift would have something to do if they weren't busy tomorrow.

He left his office, and turned the corner into the day room. It was quiet—too quiet for a normal fire station, especially on a day as hot as this one. Even at almost nine o'clock, the temperature was still in the mid eighties, and the cloud cover promised to act like a blanket, and keep the heat in.

Hank frowned, as he found that the day room was deserted. Had the men gone to bed already? He doubted that. He poked his head out the kitchen door—nobody was outside at the picnic table, though he wouldn't have expected that. He started to have a bad, bad feeling that he was about to be seriously pranked.

Hank sighed, and steeled himself for whatever might be coming as he headed into the apparatus bay. He didn't mind getting drenched, or what have you, to help his boys let off some steam. As long as they weren't at each other's throats, he didn't care if—

"What the … ?"

Five men were lying supine on the apparatus bay floor, arms and legs spread out wide.

"You should try it, Cap. It's nice and cool down here. Nice and cool," Chet said, patting an empty spot on the floor. "We saved you a spot. Right here."

"You guys look ridiculous," Cap said, shaking his head.

"And you look hot and sweaty, Cap," Johnny said. "C'mon, give it a try!"

"I mopped and dried the floor," Stoker said. "You don't even have to worry about getting dirty."

Cap looked behind him, as if there could possibly be anyone who was watching.

"All right," he grumbled. "But this better not be a prank."

He settled his lanky frame onto the floor. "This is ridiculous," he grumbled to himself.

Ten minutes later, when the sound of clicking toenails on the apparatus bay floor heralded the arrival of Henry the basset hound, six men were lying supine on the apparatus bay floor.

**The End (of the chapter)**

**Series TBC**


	12. Holiday Mayhem

**Chapter 12: Holiday Mayhem**

_1705, December 24th._

Chet draped the final string of lights over the tree, and stepped back to inspect his work.

"Perfect," he proclaimed. "If I do say so myself. Which I do. Fire 'er up, Stoker."

Mike plugged the extension cord into the outlet in the day room, and the tree lit up in many colors. The rainbow of lights sparkled off the glass ornaments. The tinsel shimmered, and the star at the top of the tree glowed gently.

"Definitely perfect," Chet said again, reaching over his shoulder to pat himself on the back, merely because nobody else was.

"I still can't believe this tree has been sitting here for a week, and none of the other shifts had time to finish decorating it," Marco said.

"Well, we're here for forty-eight hours, or possibly the next hundred years, so we might as well be able to enjoy it," Johnny said.

"Nobody likes getting stuck on the holiday double shift," Cap said. "So let's just declare a moratorium on any more complaining, for the rest of the shift, all right? Just think—it'll be three years before we have to do this again."

"And just think," Chet said, "how many amazingly stupid seasonal accidents we'll get to see!" He rubbed his hands in glee.

Everyone stared at him.

"What?" Chet said. "It's true!"

"You don't have to sound so … excited about it," Mike said. "I'm all for the holiday spirit, but I don't think that really counts."

"Besides, Kelly," Roy added, "you don't even get to _see_ most of them. They're mostly squad-only responses."

"True," Chet said, frowning. "But remember what C-shift had last year? That one with the guy who fell into his chimney when he was trying to install a Santa decoration? That was the whole station, plus the aerial ladder truck from 110's, too."

"That did sound pretty … extraordinary," Cap said. "They didn't know where he was, exactly, inside the chimney, so they couldn't just start cutting."

"I'm amazed the guy survived," Roy said. "I mean, that much time without being able to fully expand your chest cavity can suffocate you, even if you're breathing perfectly good air."

"And then there was the house fire that 36's had," Chet said, "where the homeowner started the fire by trying to brown the turkey's skin with a blow-torch."

"Now _that_," Marco said, "is just plain stupid. If the outside of your turkey isn't browned, there's no way the inside is cooked."

Johnny put his finger in the air, as if to make an important announcement. "It is true, though, that most of the holiday accidents will just be me and Roy. You know—someone's carving the bird, and cuts themselves. Or putting lights up, and they fall off their ladder. Though I guess that one's probably done for the season," he said, frowning.

"And don't forget all the domestic violence," Roy added. "'Tis the season."

"Enough!" Cap said. "I swear, you twits almost sound like you're _hoping_ for these sorts of things."

"No, no no no," Chet protested. "It's just that … well, if we're stuck here—"

"Kelly!" Cap warned.

Chet sighed. "All right, no complaining, I know."

With complaining outlawed, and Cap's suggestion that people were being a tad morbid, it became quiet in the day room.

"Geez, guys. There has to be _something_ to talk about," Cap said, some minutes of silence later.

Mike picked up the paperback he'd been reading earlier, and Johnny yanked the newspaper out from under the dog, who looked at him dolefully. Not that he had any other looks; it was just a particularly obvious one this time. Roy went back to his magazine, and—

BWAAAAAAMP, BWOOOM BWEEEEEEEP!

Everyone sighed in relief.

"_Squad 51, 2946 East Ward Road, hand laceration, bleeding not controlled. 2-9-4-6 East Ward, cross street Hardesty, for a hand laceration, bleeding not controlled. 1714._"

"See?" Johnny said to Chet on his way out to the squad.

Roy pulled the squad out of the bay, lights flashing and siren blaring. "Any bets on a turkey-carving accident?" Roy said.

"No bets here," Johnny replied. "Any bets on artery versus vein?"

"Nope," Roy replied. "Plenty of both in your hand."

"Here's the cross street," Johnny said. "Take a left."

The tires screeched as Roy took the corner a shade too fast.

Johnny gripped the handle over the window. "Why is it again that you always get to drive?"

There wasn't time to get into that old discussion again, as they pulled past the driveway of the address they'd been dispatched to. They pulled out all the equipment they would need for treating hemorrhaging, and strode up to the front door.

The door flew open. A woman in a reindeer sweater, fake antlers on her head, ushered them in.

"Quick," she said. "In the dining room. Oh my God, I had no idea there could even _be_ so much blood!"

Their patient was lying on the floor, one leg elevated, the leg of his pants saturated with bright red blood. A towel wrapped around his thigh was also completely soaked. There was a good-sized puddle on the hardwood floor, as well. A carving knife lay guiltily on the floor a foot away from their patient.

"Okay, so it's not your hand that's cut, apparently," Johnny said, as he yanked open a large bandage and pressed it into the wound, hard. The man, looking pale and clammy, didn't reply, as he was breathing hard. Roy slipped an oxygen mask over his face, further decreasing the man's chance of explaining his accident.

"Hand? No," the woman said. "Hand? Oh—the person I talked to must have heard 'ham.' Howard was cutting the ham, and I don't know what happened, but the knife slipped and went right into his leg!"

"Yes, ma'am, I see that now," Johnny said, as he continued pressing the wad of bandages into the wound. "Roy, more!"

Roy had already anticipated the situation, and handed Johnny another thick rectangle of padding. Johnny pressed it on top of the first wad, and was relieved to see that it did not immediately become saturated. He held the pile of dressings on tightly, while Roy set up an IV pack while holding the handset of the biophone between his ear and his shoulder.

Johnny wrapped the huge wad of dressings with rolls of gauze, twisting and crossing over the dressing to make a pressure bandage. Once his hands were free, he got a set of vitals, writing them on a slip of paper so Roy could report them to Rampart.

"Rampart, bleeding is now controlled. Vitals are: pulse 130 and thready, BP 70/50, respirations 28 and shallow," Roy said, concluding his report to Dr. Early.

"Copy, 51. Start an IV, Ringers, wide open, and transport immediately."

Johnny rode in with the patient, who started to improve slightly with the high-flow oxygen, and with the IV fluids replacing some of his blood volume.

The patient pulled the non-rebreather mask away from his face with a bloody hand. "Almost … killed by … the ham. Unbe … fucking … lievably … stupid."

Johnny smiled, and replaced the mask. "Hey, nobody lyin' down back here has ever said 'Gosh, I'm really feeling proud of myself right now.' And I bet you'll be fine."

"Thanks," the guy said weakly.

Half an hour later, back at the station, things were still tensely silent when Roy and Johnny returned to the day room. Even Marco, who never lost his cool, was chopping something more vigorously than it probably needed, taking out his annoyance on part of the evening's dinner.

Mike slammed his paperback shut, insofar as it was possible to do so. He glared at the book, cursing its inadequacy as a noisemaker. "This is ridiculous," he said.

"I couldn't agree with you more, Stoker," Captain Stanley said. "Which is why we are now going to play poker. Unless you're in the kitchen, helping Marco, you're in the game."

"Aw, Cap!" Johnny whined.

Cap shot Johnny a look that could've fried an egg. Johnny sighed, and opened the cabinet under the television. He retrieved a deck of cards and the tray of poker chips, and sat down at the table. He was nothing if not a man who knew when he was beaten.

Cap started shuffling. "You know the rules, boys. No actual money changes hands, though if you're in the hole, you can place bets without monetary value. We get toned out, the hand is void."

"Thanks, Gage, for last time," Chet said. "Can't remember the last time I actually had to clean a toilet, what with all those IOUs."

"Yeah, ha ha," Johnny said. "You just wait."

Cap started dealing. "Five card draw, nothing wild."

"Vanilla …" Mike muttered under his breath.

"What was that, Stoker?" Cap asked.

"Nothing important," Mike said.

"Ante up, boys," Cap said.

Chips clattered into the center of the table. Everyone picked up their cards, and Johnny immediately scowled.

"Nice poker face, Junior," Roy said. Johnny practiced his poker face by ignoring his partner.

Play commenced. Mike, Roy, and Chet each took two cards, and Cap and Johnny took three. Roy folded when it was his turn, but Johnny raised.

"Seriously, Gage?" Chet said. "Your mouth says 'raise,' but your face says 'fold.'"

"Well, Chet, your job is to decide which one to believe," Johnny said.

Just before Cap executed his plan to utter the word "call," the tones dropped.

BWAAAAAAMP, BWOOOM BWEEEEEEEP!

"NO!" Johnny shouted.

"_Station 51, report of a smoke-filled residence from a possible oven fire, 3950 Hillcrest Lane, 3-9-5-0 Hillcrest Lane, cross street Meadow Court. Time out: 1822._"

"It's not fair!" Johnny continued, as everyone dashed to the bay. "I was gonna win! I know I was gonna win!" he shouted out the passenger-side window of the squad.

"Rules are rules, Gage," Mike said, as he started up the diesel engine.

They arrived on scene to find smoke wafting—not pouring, luckily—out of many windows of a one-story house. The homeowners were outside.

Cap trotted over to them, just as they ran to meet him, sensing he was in charge.

"Is everyone out?" Cap asked.

"Yeah, I'm not even sure there's really a fire, but man, it's smoky!"

"All right," Cap said. "We'll figure out what's going on." He turned to the squad. "Roy, John—pack up and see if you can find the source. Chet, Marco, pull a line to the front door."

As his crew began following the orders they'd already anticipated, Cap reported in to dispatch.

"Engine 51 on the scene at a single-story wood-frame home, with light smoke conditions and no flames visible. No entrapment. No second alarm needed at this time."

Roy and Johnny went in through the front door, and headed to the back of the house, where the kitchen would normally be found in a house of that size. There wasn't any intense heat, so they both suspected there was something smoldering in the kitchen. Sure enough, black smoke billowed from the oven.

Roy pulled the oven open from one side as Johnny stood by with the extinguisher at the other side. No flames emerged, so Roy just grabbed the tray and started carrying it back out the way they came. Chet and Marco, who were standing by at the front door with an inch-and-a-half, made room for their exit.

Roy set the tray down on the sidewalk, and he and Johnny took their masks off to inspect it, along with Cap.

Cap shook his head, and signaled to Mike to shut the pump down. Chet and Marco pulled their line back to the engine, and stared at the smoldering heap as well. Mike took the engine out of pump gear, and joined his comrades at the sidewalk.

Chet rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Aren't you supposed to—"

"Yep," Cap said. "Definitely."

Everyone looked down at the turkey for another moment.

"All right," Cap said. "Let's ventilate this place, and go home. I'll talk to the homeowners."

"Try not to laugh too hard," Mike said.

"Who, me?" Cap said innocently. "Keeping a straight face in these situations is part of the Captain's test."

"Good to know," Mike said. He turned towards the engine, as he was having an increasingly difficult time keeping his laughter contained.

Chet took a huge electric fan inside the house to blow smoke out, and Marco followed him inside to open all the windows. Johnny and Roy returned their airpacks to the squad, and then went to the engine to help Mike pack up the hose. Everyone was glad not to be in charge at that moment—especially those whose poker faces were not up to snuff.

Hank Stanley steeled himself for his encounter by thinking of the day his childhood dog died, and thinking of the time he'd been yelled at, as a green engineer, for putting a dent in the engine by backing it into a utility pole.

"Captain, was that what was making the smoke? The turkey?" the young-looking husband asked. His wife was clinging to him, literally crying on his shoulder.

"I'm afraid so," Cap said gravely.

"But—but we followed all of my mother's instructions!" the man said.

"I think maybe she left out the part about taking the plastic wrapping off the bird before putting it in the oven," Cap said.

"Oh," the man said quietly, patting his wife's hand as her tears ramped up a notch.

"In any case," Cap continued, "we'll get the smoke out of the house, and then we'll be on our way."

"Thanks," the man said. "And, uh, sorry about all this. Sorry to drag you out on Christmas Eve."

"Don't worry about it," Cap said kindly. "That's what we're here for. I'm sorry your holiday dinner didn't go as planned."

The man sighed. "Yeah, well, maybe I'll have a grain of common sense next time."

Fifteen minutes later, the hose was repacked, and the ventilation was as good as it was going to get. The squad pulled away first, followed by the engine, and the men were back at the station in under ten minutes.

"I was seriously gonna win," Johnny said, as everyone paraded back into the kitchen. He flipped his cards over, waving them in the air for anyone who cared to see them. "Look—three aces! Three of a kind! I definitely woulda won that hand if we hadn't gotten toned out." He threw his cards on the table in disgust.

"Well, you win some, and …" Chet feigned a thoughtful look. "No, I take that back."

Johnny scowled mightily. "You're pushin' it, Kelly. Really, really pushin' it."

Stoker sat at the table, shuffling the cards. "So, Gage, should I deal you in, or not?"

Johnny plopped down into a chair so hard it creaked. "I guess so. There's nothing else to do."

Cap raised his eyebrows. "I could always come up with something else, if a friendly card game is such a hardship."

Johnny wisely kept his mouth shut, as Mike began dealing. "Seven card stud, high/low, follow the queen," Mike said.

"What?" Roy said. "Was that English? It sounded like English, but it didn't make any sense."

"The first up-turned card following any up queen is wild," Chet explained. "Highest hand and lowest hand split the pot—so really, he's taking pity on Gage."

"Chet," Cap said, eyebrows looking extremely disapproving, "we're here for thirty-six more hours. I'd prefer that there not be any fatalities, so enough with the digs already."

"Don't get too invested, hombres, because the posole is gonna be done by the end of this hand," Marco said from the stove. "And if someone folds, they can slice some radishes."

Stoker dealt everyone two down cards and one up card. The only sound in the room was the quiet bubbling of Marco's hominy soup.

"Roy, you start the betting—you've got the lowest card showing," Mike said.

"Okay," Roy said. "I bet—"

BWAAAAAAMP, BWOOOM BWEEEEEEEP!

"_Station 51, respond to an unknown type incident at 1888 Euclid Street, 1-8-8-8 Euclid, cross street Caldwell. Neighbor reports a flash and a loud sound, and nobody answers at the door. Time out: 1948."_

"Forced poker night obviously isn't meant to be," Mike said, dropping the deck on the table.

The crew members on both apparatus were uncharacteristically quiet on their way to the address, which was only three minutes from the station. An electrical tang hung in the uncharacteristically humid air. Mike started hooking the engine up to the hydrant, which was conveniently located right in front of the house.

Cap was once again descended upon by a civilian.

"Oh, thank goodness you're here!" the woman cried.

"What happened?" Cap asked.

"Well, I was at my kitchen window, and I could see Fred doing something next door, near his Christmas tree. Then there was a loud bang, and everything went dark in the house, and now he's not answering the door! And I know he's not gone, because he's supposed to be having all the neighbors over at eight thirty for drinks!"

"Marco, Chet, get in that front door, pronto," Cap ordered. "Roy, John, get what you'll need for a possible electrocution victim."

Everyone scurried to his task. Cap reported in to dispatch. Marco and Chet's job was done in an instant—the front door was unlocked. No smoke came out when they opened the door, but they went back to the engine and picked up fire extinguishers suitable for an electrical fire, and followed Roy and Johnny into the dark house, with Cap close on their heels.

"Fire department!" Roy called, as he and Johnny entered. "Anyone here?"

The men shone their flashlights around the living room, until Chet called out, "Here! By the bay window!"

There was man lying prone on the floor, next to an overturned chair. Nobody touched him, as the smell of scorched flesh suggested an electrocution. A gentle rise and fall of the upper body showed he was still breathing. His right hand was clenched around a blackened tree-top star. The insulation on its wire was melted away.

"Cap, did you find the fuse box?" Johnny called.

"Affirmative," Cap called from the other room. "You're clear—I pulled the whole-house fuse. Man, he really messed around with his fuse box. I'm surprised the whole place didn't go up."

Johnny and Roy approached their patient. He was face down on the floor, and one arm lay at an angle that indicated it was broken. He had vomited on the floor, and his open mouth remained in the unsavory puddle.

"Okay," Roy said, "we've gotta roll him so we can control his airway. Chet, you take his head; Marco, you stabilize that fractured arm. We roll on Chet's count."

"Roll on three," Chet said. "One, two, three."

In one coordinated movement, the four men rolled the victim to his back. Johnny started getting vitals, while Roy cleaned out his mouth and put an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. In the background, Cap started setting up the biophone. He relayed the information John and Roy began calling out.

"Pulse 74 and irregular, Roy. Respirations 10 and labored—better get some lung sounds, because I bet he aspirated."

"On it," Roy said. "Right pupil blown, Johnny. Lemme get him on the monitor and then I'll get some lung sounds."

"BP 100/68," Johnny reported.

As Roy applied the electrodes, a wiggly line appeared on the scope. Every third heartbeat or so, the regularity of the pattern was interrupted by an arrhythmia.

"Rampart says send them a strip," Cap reported.

Roy plugged the monitor into the biophone, and motioned to Cap to hand him the receiver of the biophone.

"Rampart, this is lead two," Roy said.

Johnny prepared an IV pack, assuming that Rampart would order it, and got out the most likely drugs they'd be asked to administer as well. Roy clamped the biophone receiver between his neck and shoulder as he started applying a cervical collar to stabilize the man's neck, in case it had been injured in the fall.

"_51, start an IV, D5W, TKO for now. Transport with spinal precautions, and keep him on the monitor. Advise us of any changes in frequency or type of arrhythmia en route,_" Dr. Early said. Roy was startled to hear his voice; for some reason he'd been assuming he'd hear Dr. Morton or another resident, since usually the most senior physicians were off for the holidays.

"Copy that, Rampart; D5W TKO, spinal precautions, monitor and advise en route," Roy repeated.

Johnny started the IV that would allow instant access for any potential urgently-needed drugs, while Roy splinted the opposite arm. As they completed these tasks, their patient began to stir.

"Sir? Try not to move," Roy said, as the patient started to try to lift his head.

"Wha …" the man started, but broke out in a coughing fit. He tried to push the oxygen mask away from his face, but Johnny gently restrained him.

"Sir, you need to try not to move," Johnny said. "You had a bad fall, and we think you got an electrical shock as well."

"Arm …"

"Your arm is broken," Johnny said. "We're taking you to the hospital, so just try to relax and not move around. Do you remember what happened?"

The man blinked twice, and seemed to suddenly take in what was going on around him. His eyes widened as they stared at Cap's striped helmet.

"Fire?"

"No," Johnny reassured him, "there wasn't a fire. Sounds like you fried your fuse box pretty bad, though."

"Ohhh, shit," the man groaned. "Stupid." He burst into another coughing fit.

Johnny looked up at Cap.

"It looked like did some creative and ill-advised electrical work at the fuse box," Cap said.

"Ah," Johnny said dryly.

The wail of the Mayfair ambulance's siren grew louder, and the flashing red lights illuminated the ornamented tree in the bay window. At the same time, the green line on the heart monitor waggled irregularly, three times in succession, and the patient gasped.

"What was that?" he asked.

"You're having some irregular heartbeats," Johnny told him, as Roy got back on the phone to Rampart.

Roy had a quick conversation with Rampart, relaying the patient's return to consciousness and the successive arrhythmias. Johnny pushed the IV lidocaine, and then set up the drip, as Dr. Early ordered. They loaded their backboarded patient onto the gurney.

"Cap, can someone get the squad to Rampart?" Johnny said, looking over Roy's shoulder at the monitor readout. He didn't want to say anything in front of the patient, but there was every indication that they might need two sets of hands during this transport.

"Sure—Chet, you're on it," Cap said. "We're just gonna lock out this fuse box until it gets taken care of. See you back at the barn."

During the ride to Rampart, the patient stabilized and became increasingly alert.

"I can't believe how stupid that was," he said.

"How stupid what was?" Johnny asked.

"I … uh … well, I kept blowing fuses when I plugged in more lights for the tree. So I … uh, fiddled with the fuse box."

"Do you remember what happened?" Johnny asked, all the while wanting to scream _"you stupid idiot!"_ but somehow managing to refrain from actually doing so.

"Sort of," the patient said. "I was standing on a chair, putting the star on top of the tree. That's the last thing I remember."

"Well," Johnny said, "you've got yourself quite a knock on the noggin, and it looks pretty likely that you got an electrical shock as well. I wonder if maybe you got shocked, and that made you fall off the chair."

"Could be," the patient said. "But I don't really remember. And geez, my arm smarts like a sonofagun. I don't suppose there's anything you can give me for that?"

Johnny shook his head. "Sorry, pal; not when you just got knocked out, and not with these irregular heartbeats you're having. But we'll be at Rampart in just a couple of minutes."

The man yelled as the ambulance hit a bump.

"Sorry about that," Johnny said.

Roy adjusted the drip on the IV, and got another set of vitals. A few silent minutes later, the ambulance backed towards the entrance of the ER, and Johnny and Roy wheeled their patient into the ER.

"Treatment two," the nurse said.

Johnny and Roy conveyed their patient to the room, and left him with their best wishes.

"Sorry to drag you out on Christmas Eve," the patient said.

"No problem, we're on duty anyhow," Johnny said. "Take care, okay?"

"No more amateur electrical work. I promise," the patient said.

Johnny shot him a quick thumbs up, and he and Roy left the ER. They got to the exit just as Chet pulled up with the squad.

"All right, Gage," Roy said. "Say it. I know you want to."

"What a stupid, moronic, boneheaded idiot!" Johnny shouted. A couple walking across the parking lot stopped briefly, stared, and looked away quickly when Johnny met their gaze.

"Feel better?" Roy said.

"Yep."

"Come on, guys," Chet said. "I don't have all night."

"Sure you do," Johnny said, squeezing into the middle seat. "What else do you hafta do tonight besides drive us around?"

"Well I'm starving, for one thing," Chet said. "Let's get back to the station before the rest of the guys eat all the food."

~!~!~!~

Marco's posole was delicious—a rich stew of hominy, in a tomato base, with meat and vegetables on the side for people to mix in. He had also prepared the traditional toppings of cilantro and thinly sliced radishes, which made the dish look festive and seasonal. The men ate with gusto, and speed, never knowing when the tones might drop and interrupt their meal.

"Marco, this is terrific," Roy said, serving himself up a second bowl of the stew.

"Thanks," Marco replied. "My mother always makes this on Christmas Eve."

"I've never had this before, but it's great," Mike said.

While they were eating, the station's doorbell rang. Johnny perked up instantly.

"Cookies!" he blurted, as he ran to the front door.

"Or, someone having a heart attack, maybe," Mike said, recalling an unfortunate incident in the station.

"That's our Stoker," Chet commented. "Always thinking on the dark side."

But Johnny returned with a box of baked goods. "I love grateful citizens," he said, biting the head off a gingerbread man. "They're my favorite."

By the time the meal was over and the kitchen was clean, and everyone had had coffee and cookies, it was nearly lights out.

"Well, I'm just gonna turn in," Cap said.

One by one, the rest of the men retired to the dorm as well. Soon, not a creature was stirring, except Henry the dog, who just didn't seem to be able to get comfortable, which might have had something to do with the quantity of cookies he had eaten.

The tones sounded, and everyone automatically found their boots with their feet, and hauled their suspenders up over their shoulders by the time the klaxons had stopped. No dispatch information followed.

"What the …" Chet said. "Was that the wakeup tones?"

"I don't believe it," Cap said. "We just had an entire night without a single call. Now, when was the last time _that_ happened?"

Nobody could come up with an answer to that question.

"Well, Merry Christmas to us!" Marco said.

"And cookies for breakfast!" Johnny said, starting towards the kitchen.

**The End (of this chapter. Series TBC).**


	13. Undetectable

A/N: General warning for a dire situation with an ambiguous outcome.

**Chapter 13: Undetectable**

"Reggie?"

"Yeah, Bill? What's up?" Reggie replied, as his neighbor approached. He turned off the engine of the machinery he was using so he could hear better.

"Well," Bill said, frowning and scratching his head through his cap. "I hate to say it, but I gotta go into the manure pit."

"The manure pit? Why would you need to do that?" Reggie asked. "It's kinda dangerous."

"I know, I know. It's a one-in-a-million thing. See, you know that pocket knife from my grandfather?" Bill said.

"You didn't," Reggie said, shaking his head.

"I did," Bill admitted. "I was cleaning under my fingernails, and … well. I dropped it. And of course it went right through the slats in the floor, into the pit."

"Damn," Reggie said.

"Yup." Bill sighed, and scratched his head again. "But at least we had the tank pumped out the day before yesterday. So it shouldn't be too bad. But I was wondering if you'd spot me anyhow."

"Sure thing," Reggie said. "Wanna do it now? I need a break from this project, anyhow."

"Thanks."

The two men trudged over to Bill's pickup truck, and drove the short distance to the neighboring farm.

A man with a distinct family resemblance to Bill greeted the two men at the barn.

"Hey, Reggie! What's going on?"

Bill made frantic 'don't tell him' gestures behind his brother's back.

Reggie fumbled for words, not understanding why Bill wouldn't want his brother to know what they were doing. "Uh, hey, Sam. Um, Bill wanted to show me one of the pigs. So we're just gonna pop over to the pig barn."

"Okay," Sam said. "Need a hand with anything?"

"No!" Bill said, a little more sharply than the circumstances seemed to dictate. "We're good, thanks. I'm just showing off Sassy's piglets, is all."

"Mm, that's a fine brood indeed," Sam said, returning to his task. "Catch you guys later."

"See ya, Sam," Reggie said.

Reggie and Bill didn't speak until they reached the barn.

"What was that all about?" Reggie asked. "Why don't you want Sam around? In fact, why didn't you just ask _him_ to spot you?"

"Well, I just didn't want him to know I'd dropped our grandfather's pocket knife into the manure pit, is all," Bill said. "He was sore enough in the first place when I got it in the will. And, actually, I was gonna give it to him for his birthday this year. So I wanna keep that a surprise."

"Gotcha," Reggie said.

"I better show you those piglets, just so you can honestly say you've seen 'em," Bill said. "And then, let's get this over with."

Reggie dutifully admired Sassy's litter of eleven fine piglets, and then the two men went to the end of the barn, headed for the access hatch that would admit Bill to the manure pit.

Bill pulled the hatch open, and inspected the gauge at the bottom of the ladder.

"I dunno, Bill," Reggie said, as Bill started down the ladder. "You're not really supposed to go into the manure pit. All those gases and everything. I've heard of people getting overcome by fumes. I guess, and drowning in the muck. Are you sure this is okay?"

"We just had it pumped out, so it's only a couple inches deep," he said. "And it doesn't even smell that bad. No fumes are gonna knock me out. Honest. Plus, I know exactly where I dropped the knife, so I oughta be done in a jiff. I'll try not to breathe too much."

"Okey doke. I'll just hang out here," Reggie said, shaking his head. "I don't see as how you could get stuck in five inches of muck, but I'm here just the same."

Bill took a few deep breaths, and descended the ladder. Reggie watched as he made his way down the long pit, and winced as a poorly-timed dropping from above landed right on Bill's shoulder.

"Dang it!" Bill said, wiping the manure off and flinging it into the rest of the muck.

"You sure you know where to find that knife?" Reggie said, after Bill was halfway down the length of the pit.

"Uh … I put a … thingy, you know, down the slat that it fell through. So I could see it," Bill said, just loudly enough that Reggie could hear.

"A what?" Reggie called. "Maybe I can help from up top."

"It's a … shoot. I don't see it," Bill said. He lurched sideways and caught himself on the wall.

"Bill? Bill! You okay down there?"

"Yeah, yeah—just a little lightheaded," Bill replied, shaking his head like a dog with wet ears. "Should be fine down here, since we just pumped the pit the other day," Bill said. He coughed, and continued to look around. "If I could just see it … it oughta be plain as day. Then the knife'll be right there. Right …"

Reggie called out again. "Bill, what's the thing you're trying to see? I'm not following you."

"Aha!" Bill called, striding three more steps down the length of the pit, pointing to what was the ceiling for him, and the floor for Reggie. "There's my ribbon I put down a slit, right where the knife fell through."

Bill crouched down near the floor, and started rooting around in the manure, right below the red plastic tape that Reggie could now see fluttering above Bill.

At first, Bill's movements were quick, as he swept his hands back and forth through the muck on the cement floor of the pit. But after about a minute, he slowed, and dropped to all fours.

Reggie laid himself flat on the floor of the barn and stuck his head into the opening in the floor.

"Bill? What are you doing?" Reggie shouted in alarm.

"I … almost got it … " Bill replied.

"Bill, I think the fumes are gettin' to you! You're not acting right. You gotta stand up, man—there has to be fresher air up high."

"Just … just … one minute," Bill said. "Yeah … here it is."

He clutched something in his left hand, and then stood up, just long enough to stagger backwards into the wall. He slid down the wall, slowly, until he was sitting on the floor.

"Bill, you need to get up! Come one, man!"

"Hey … Reggie … why'm I so tired all of a sudden?"

Bill was leaning against the wall of the pit, breathing like he'd run a marathon. He looked at the item in his hand, and slowly slipped it into his pocket, as if the movement were a ritual he'd performed many times.

"Bill, you need to come back to the ladder, right now!" Reggie yelled, his heart pounding as he grasped that his friend was in serious trouble.

"Nah … it's okay," Bill said. "I can … I can …" His voice tapered off as his back slid down the wall.

"Bill!" Reggie shouted once more, knowing his efforts were futile, but trying nonetheless. "Bill! Get up!"

"Is he _down_ there?" came a voice from above and behind Reggie, who stood up quickly.

"Sam—go call the fire department! Bill's passed out down there!"

"What the hell?!" Sam shouted, trying to push Reggie aside. "Why the hell did you let him go in there?"

Reggie leaned into Sam with his shoulder, not pushing him with his hands, but trying to keep him away from the open hatch in the floor.

"Call the fire department," Reggie repeated.

"No!" Sam shouted, pushing Reggie away. "I can get him! I'll hold my breath, and I'll drag him over here! You get some rope to help!"

Reggie wrapped his arms around Sam, restraining him from going any further. He backed Sam against the wall of the barn, pinning him gently but firmly.

"No, Sam," he said, with calmness that belied his own panic. looking right in Sam's face. "No. You'll get sick too, and that won't help Bill."

Sam struggled in Reggie's grasp, trying to push away the strong arms that were holding him back from his attempt to save his brother.

"He's _dying_ down there! How could you let him … I have to go get him!" Sam yelled, trying to break free from Reggie's hold.

"Sam! I'm _not_ gonna let you go down there too! You hear me? _Not_ gonna let you. Now you go call the fire department, and get a fan from the house, and stop wasting any more time!"

Sam suddenly went limp in Reggie's arms, and Reggie took that as a sign to release his hold. Their eyes met for a moment, and then Sam let out a single sob before he ran out of the barn, towards the house.

~!~!~!~!~

BWAMP, BWOOM BWEEEP!

"_Station 51, person reported to be trapped and unconscious, unknown situation. McGinty Farm, Old Canyon Road at Fire Road 4. Old Canyon Road at Fire Road 4. Time out: 0802."_

Roy hastily finished the glass of water he was drinking, and turned to put the glass in the sink, nearly colliding with Mike, who was putting his coffee cup in the sink at the same time.

"Sorry," they said to each other.

"Just don't do the same thing with the squad and the engine," Marco joked, as everyone streamed into the apparatus bay.

The squad and the engine pulled out in their usual order, the squad leading the way down the city road. They soon entered the more rural territory at the edge of their district, and the squad pulled ahead of the engine, which didn't fare as well on the bumpy road.

A man was standing at the gate, frantically waving his arms in the air.

"It's my brother!" he said, as soon as the squad approached. "He went down in the manure pit, and he … he's just slumped over down there. We put a fan in. I … I think he's still breathing, but …"

"All right," Roy said. "Show us where."

The man pointed to the barn, and the squad pulled up to where Reggie, who'd heard the commotion, was gesturing.

"Quick! You guys have those air tanks, right? You gotta get him out!"

"Yes sir," Johnny replied, as he and Roy started grabbing belts, ropes, SCBAs, and medical equipment from the squad. The engine pulled up just as the equipment was all unloaded.

"Cap?" Roy said. "We got a man down, unconscious, in the manure pit."

"Okay—you and John go down there and get him ready to come up. We'll be ready for you," Cap said. He went into the barn, Mike at his heels.

While John and Roy were packing up and preparing to get to their patient, Cap and Mike were surveying the scene.

"We could get a line over that beam, there," Mike said, pointing upwards to the structure of the roof, "and get a block and tackle set up."

Cap nodded. "Get it going, will ya, Stoker? I gotta find out what happened, here."

Johnny was masked up and on air a hair before Roy, so he descended the ladder. It was a tight fit with the air pack on his back, but he made it. Roy passed the oxygen equipment down to him. In seconds, Johnny was next to Bill.

Bill's lips were bluish, and there was vomit down the front of his bib overalls.

"He's barely breathin'," he said to Roy.

Roy rapidly assembled the ambu-bag, and while John cleared Bill's airway as well as he could, Roy quickly hooked up the oxygen, feeding the line into the ambu-bag. Johnny held the mask against Bill's face with both hands, while Roy squeezed the bag. Their positioning was awkward, and they couldn't do anything else at the same time, but it was crucial to get some oxygen into their patient as quickly as possible.

They continued bagging him, squeezing nearly pure oxygen into his lungs, every 5 seconds, for two minutes. Their own breaths, obvious from the noise of the SCBAs, kept pace with what they were delivering to Bill.

Bill didn't stir.

Johnny twisted his neck to look at Roy.

"If we lay him down, I can bag him, while you get another guy down here to get a belt on him," Johnny said, his voice thick and muffled by his facepiece.

They were about to turn Bill, to lay him down flat in the muck, when Marco descended the ladder, twisting at the top to fit his air bottle through the opening.

"Looked like you guys needed another set of hands," he said. The valves on his mask hissed as he breathed out, and the regulator whooshed on each inhalation, almost in a mockery of Bill's nearly absent respirations.

"Get that belt around him," Roy said, "so we can keep breathing for him."

"Got it," Marco said. He skidded in the manure, but caught himself just before he fell, and had the safety belt around Bill's waist in seconds.

"All right," Johnny said. "I guess we oughta hyperventilate him, and then the three of us can drag him over to the hatch as fast as we can."

"Good plan," Marco said.

"Marco, you and I will do a two-man carry, and Roy, you get the equipment over to the ladder," Johnny said. "Then we can ventilate him a few more times before we send him up. Roy, you'll go up the ladder with the O2 while Marco and I hook him up down here."

"Got it," Roy said, Marco echoing him quickly.

Roy increased the rate of breaths, squeezing the air in quickly, and pausing just long enough to let the bag refill before giving Bill another breath. After thirty seconds, they were ready to move.

"On three," Johnny said. "One, two, three!"

Johnny grabbed Bill under his arms, and Marco picked his lower body up. They moved as quickly as they could on the manure-slickened floor to get Bill under the open hatch, where Mike, Cap, and Chet had already set up an arrangement of ropes and pulleys to hoist Bill up to purer air.

"Okay!" Johnny said, when they were directly underneath the opening in the floor above them.

Marco supported Bill's upper body as Roy and Johnny, working together without words being necessary, gave Bill several more quick breaths of pure oxygen.

"All right, let's go!" Johnny said. He grabbed the carabiner that was dangling next to him, and attached it to the D-ring on the wide belt around Bill's waist. At the same time, Roy sent the O2 tank up, setting it away from the edge of the hatch, and scrambled up the ladder awkwardly, with the ambu-bag clenched between his teeth. With his SCBA on, he barely fit through the opening, and had to twist sideways at the top of the ladder so he could clear the edges of the hatch.

"Take him up!" Johnny shouted, as soon as Roy was clear.

Between the mechanical advantage of the pulley system, and the strength of the three men hauling on the ropes, it took only seconds to pull Bill's limp form through the hatch. Johnny and Marco guided his lower body through, while Roy made sure Bill's head didn't hit anything on the way up.

Johnny scrambled up the ladder, whipping off his facepiece and turning his air tank off as soon as he got to the top of the ladder. He began assisting Roy in continuing the ventilations, holding the mask securely onto Bill's face.

"Marco, can you take over on the bag?" Roy asked.

"Sure thing," Marco said.

Johnny got an initial set of vitals, and set up the biophone.

"Rampart, this is Squad 51, how do you read?"

In the flurry of activity in the barn, Sam and Reggie remained pressed against a wall, watching anxiously. Their offers of help, when Captain Stanley had approached them about what had happened, had been gently but firmly declined. At first, both men had been offended and angry to have their offer of help rebuffed, but as they watched the rescue, they each realized that they would've been in the way; would've been a wrench thrown into the cogs of the crew that was lifting Bill to the barn floor.

Sam surged forwards briefly when Bill first came through the hatch, but stopped when he saw that once again he would probably be in the way. He didn't understand what was going on, but knew that it was bad that they were pretty much breathing for Bill.

Medical jargon flew by, and Sam slumped on the floor, in a pose reminiscent of his brother's, but far less foreboding. He watched as the two paramedics checked Bill's heart rhythm, started an IV, and continued the artificial breathing.

Captain Stanley crouched on the floor near Sam.

"The ambulance will be here any minute. They'll be taking him to Rampart," he said.

Sam nodded, mutely.

Captain Stanley hesitated before he made his next remark.

"I know it must've been the hardest thing either of you has ever done, not to go in after him. But it was the right choice. People think they can hold their breath long enough, but they never can. Not ever."

Reggie cleared his throat.

"We thought the air would be okay, since the tank was just pumped out. But he … I didn't really get how much trouble he was in, until he just … slumped down," Reggie admitted.

Cap nodded. "That's the way this kind of thing works. You don't feel like you're running out of air—not like you're drowning, or have a pillow over your face. You aren't getting enough oxygen, because the methane has replaced some of it, but you don't even realize it. You just feel tired, and maybe a little stupid, and then you pass out."

"You shoulda stopped him," Sam said abruptly, looking up at Reggie. "You shoulda never let him go down there."

"I know," Reggie said softly. "God help me, I know it."

The ambulance attendants wheeled the gurney into the barn, and on a count of three, Roy, Marco, Chet, and Mike lifted Bill off of the floor and onto the stretcher.

Something clattered to the floor, narrowly missing the open hatch.

Reggie darted into the fray, and picked the object up, just as Sam was standing up to start making his way to the hospital.

"Sam," Reggie said, not sure whether Bill's brother would even speak to him.

Sam turned, but didn't reply.

Reggie held out the object. "Take this with you."

~!~!~!~!~

It was a rare situation where both Johnny and Roy rode in with the patient. But for Bill, they needed two pairs of hands and eyes. Johnny held the mask to Bill's face, and Roy squeezed the bag in a rhythm that would seem far too slow to the casual observer, but provided the best artificial respiration, leaving enough time for the passive exhalation that let the body rid itself of carbon dioxide. Squeeze, one thousand, wait, two thousand, wait, three thousand, wait, four thousand, wait, five thousand, squeeze. Over, and over.

Halfway to Rampart, Roy raised his eyebrows.

"He's fighting my rhythm," he said.

Johnny grabbed an oxygen mask, and swapped the oxygen line from the bag to the mask. He placed the mask on Bill's face, and he and Roy anxiously and simultaneously counted Bill's spontaneous respirations.

They looked at each other after a long, long thirty seconds.

"Fourteen," they said, simultaneously.

Johnny rubbed Bill's chest with his knuckles.

"Bill?" he said loudly. "Bill! Can you open your eyes?"

Bill recoiled slightly, and his arm moved feebly, as if he were trying to push Johnny away from him. His eyes didn't open, and he didn't make a sound.

Johnny listened to various places on Bill's chest with his stethoscope. He then lifted one of Bill's eyelids, and flashed his penlight into his eye to watch the pupil respond. He repeated with the other eye.

"Still real sluggish, Roy," he said, sighing.

Johnny got back on the biophone.

"Rampart, Squad 51."

"_Go ahead, 51."_

"We're en route with our patient, ETA fifteen minutes. He's now breathing on his own at a rate of fourteen, and moves to pain stimuli. We have him on ten liters of O2. Breath sounds are normal and equal. Pupils remain equal but sluggish."

"_Copy that, 51. Continue O__2__, and continue monitoring._"

Roy and Johnny sat next to each other on the bench, suddenly without any lifesaving tasks to perform. There was nothing they could do for Bill at this point, and there would likely be nothing Rampart could do either, other than monitoring and supportive care.

"How long you suppose he was down there?" Johnny asked, after a minute or so of contemplative silence. "I mean, besides the practical answer, which is 'too long.'"

Roy sighed. "Well, it took us fifteen minutes to get there. Add another five, at least, on the front end, for getting the call rolling on their end. We were darned quick getting down to him and getting him breathing pure oxygen, though."

Johnny nodded. "Over twenty minutes, though."

"For sure," Roy said. "But we don't know how bad the air was. We don't know what percentage of oxygen there was, or what else was mixed in. There was low enough oxygen to make him pass out, but high enough to keep him from dying."

Johnny shook his head. "I dunno, Roy. Sometimes these things don't turn out so well. I wish we could tell if we did him a favor, or not, by saving his life just now. "

"I don't know either, Johnny."

~!~!~!~

_Rampart, Room 418, five hours later._

Sam sat at his brother's bedside, watching and waiting. He opened and closed the pocketknife, over and over and over. For the thousandth time, he wondered why Bill would risk his life for something that now seemed like nothing but a stupid trinket.

Sam could hardly recognize his brother under all the medical paraphernalia that surrounded him. The IV was keeping Bill hydrated, and keeping his blood sugar up. A bag hanging off the bed rail collected urine. Wires attached to Bill's chest monitored his pulse and breathing rate.

The doctors had explained to Sam that the parts of Bill's brain that were in charge of these life-sustaining functions must have escaped serious damage, but that only time would tell about the rest of his brain. Every minute that went by without any improvement in Bill's condition was bad news.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," Sam said, wondering who was there. Their sister couldn't have made it from Reno yet, and hospital people usually just barged in, so he knew it wasn't them, but didn't bother to turn around to look.

Sam didn't recognize the two men who tentatively entered the room, but put two and two together when he saw the uniforms.

"You're the ones who pulled Bill out this morning," Sam said.

"Us and the rest of our station, yeah. We were on our break, and … well, we thought we'd stop by an' see how your brother's doin'," Johnny said.

"He's the same," Sam replied. "He's … exactly the same."

Sam could tell by the men's faces that they understood this was bad news.

"It's not your fault," he said. "He never shoulda gone down there. Reggie shoulda stopped him, too. But I guess it's not his fault, either. Bill's a grown man, and makes his own decisions." He paused for a second. "_Made_ his own decisions."

"You don't know yet," Roy said in his quietly reassuring voice, "that he won't again."

"I know—but I hafta say, right now it's not lookin' too good," Sam said, continuing to flip the pocketknife open and closed.

There really wasn't anything Johnny or Roy could say to that, because Sam was right, and all three of them knew it.

"Sorry to hear that," Johnny said.

"Like I said, it's not your fault. You guys … I mean, we're out in the boonies, so it took a while for you to get there, but … you got him outta there so fast I couldn't believe it," Sam said, shaking his head. "You got him out so fast, but … I don't know if he could be saved, by the time you got there."

"You were smart not to go in after him," Roy said.

"That was Reggie who was smart," Sam said. "I woulda gone right in if he hadn't stopped me. And damn it—all he went in for was this stupid pocketknife! Maybe I should let _him_ hold it, seeing how it was more important to him than his own life."

Sam folded the knife closed, and placed it in Bill's hand.

Bill's hand seemed to move, closing around the knife, but the doctors had told Sam that things like that could be reflexes, and might not mean anything. The sheets down by Bill's feet stirred as well.

"He moved his hand," Johnny said. "Did you see that?"

Sam shrugged. "Probably a reflex, they said."

"Well, maybe it's not. Why don't you try sayin' his name, real loud? See what happens?" Johnny suggested.

"Why not," Sam said. "The worst that could happen is … nothing."

He stood up, and leaned towards Bill's head.

"Bill! Hey Bill, wake up!" Sam said loudly.

All three men standing in the room watched with bated breath.

"Bill! Chow time!" Sam said, shaking Bill gently by the shoulder.

There was a hitch in Bill's breathing pattern, and slowly, slowly, he opened his eyes. Johnny and Roy didn't want to interfere with this powerful moment, but Johnny did lean in to pull the cord that would call a nurse.

At first, Bill's eyes didn't focus on anything in particular. But his brother said his name once more.

"Bill—it's Sam. Look at me, big brother."

Slowly, Bill's eyes turned to meet Sam's. He blinked once, twice. It looked like he was going to close his eyes again, but his brother persisted.

"Gotta wake up, Billy. You gotta wake up!"

Bill's eyes stayed open, and his lips moved indistinctly.

Sam turned to Johnny and Roy, eyes shining brightly.

"You did save him," Sam said. "You did."

**The End**

**Series TBC**

**A/N: **One of my very first patients in my clinical practice was a fellow who'd had a period of hypoxia. He stuck with me, and when I recently read an article about work in confined spaces with reduced oxygen, and the early signs of hypoxia, this story was born.


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